Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 25 text:

FROM A LIGHTHOUSE IN THE ST. LAWRENCE At last the summit of the tower is reached, We hreathe the keen, salt air, and gaze around; Below us, we can see the cliffs and cairns, Where thousand upon thousand gulls abound. From east to west this rugged isle extends, And to the north we see the distant mouth Of that fair river, known throughout the world — The Saguenay. Blue hills are to the south. Above all these there floats a flag on high, The flag of freedom, — and from shore to shore Men ' neath her, grateful for their liberty. Arise, and cry — This is worth fighting for. Barbara Ross, Form Vb., Ross House. ON GETTING UP IN THE MORNING THE house is quiet. You are fast asleep and having a lovely dream. Just as you stretch your hand out to shake hands with the King, a window slams. You stir and grunt. What was that! You open one eye. Maybe it ' s morning; it couldn ' t be, it ' s pitch black out and besides, you have to shake hands with the King or you ' ll be late for the train. Just as you ' re about to settle down, a cheery voice rudely interrupts with, It ' s time to get up !

Page 24 text:

SEA MAGIC Hut wlii-ii iIh- iiiooii, Ih on tlie waiK ' , riie waters { lide ba(;k To the sea a ain; Tlie cliarni Jias died, With the dyirifi waves, The beauties liichJeii In mystic caves, And there they wait, Till the next flood tide. And spell-bound magic, Come side by side. Joan Thackray, Form IVb., Ross House. EVENSONG As dusky twilight creeps upon the land. And silver studs bespangle velvet skies. The spirit of the forest folds her wings And softly sings her evening lullabies. From every grove melodious throats pour forth The flute-like notes that are the soul of song. The stately pine trees sway their heads and sing. As cool wind passes whispering along. The breezes toss the branches of the trees, And rouse the mirrored surface of the pool. In tiny ripples lapping on the shore Within the sleeping forest deep and cool. The cricket draws his bow across the strings And eerie cries of tawny owls are heard. And somewhere in the depth of all the darkness Tlie haunting cry of some night-flying bird. Tlie steady hum of myriad tiny wings Sounds gently through the warm and silky air, And with the bell-like tones of nightingales riic evensong is rising everywhere. l AMKr.A Ikvine, I ' orm VIa., Barclay House. [2?.] At the new moon, The tide is high. About the wharf, Deep waters sigh; The gentle waves. With ghostly grace, Sweep softly on With rhythmic pace; And fancy bright, Alone can know What beauties lie Shimmering below.

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You {irimt, someone is talkinfi; to you. Gather your wiln togetlier. Someone said sometliiiifi; — mayhe it was tlie Kiuj;. No, no it wasn ' t. You try to sound very wide awake and say WliatV It ' s time to get u[). Your mind strujifiles to slide [)aek into dreams, but you ' re doinfi yf»ur l)est to awake. In a vain effort you try to say sometliinfi very comjtosed and serisihie, All, tliank you, but I-er, I don ' t tliink I care for any. You hear a lau| b, and someone goes out of tbe room turning on a light whicli practieally blinds you and makes you feel very annoyed as you dive deeper under the covers. Now comes the struggle. I know it ' s not morning. Why, it ' s .Saturday, of course! No, it ' s Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday. I ' ll just pretend I ' m not here so that I won ' t have to get up. Oh, just a little more time! Time, time, I wonder what time it is? You rapidly sit up and grope for the clock. After trying for quite a while to read the wrong side of the clock, you turn it roimd and hold it up very close to your nose. You stare at it belligerently. Five past eight, five past eight — Oh, yes, well then, that ' s lots of time. You fail back in bed. Five past eight — eight past five, five eight past. Five past eight, five past eight! No!! You spring up, awake. Yes, yes, it ' s five past eight. How awful ! Why didn ' t someone wake me up. Mutter, mutter, moan. Where ' s my blouse? Don ' t see why people don ' t wake — Hey, someone stole my stocking. If they ' d only wake me. Finally you ' re dressed and so your day begins. Mary Grimley, Form IVa., Ross House. THE LISTENING HOUR Night ' s vmeventful in the world of men, A dull, dead time; outdoors some unknown power. Rouses the countryside one stirring hour, And Nature wakes so she can sleep again. ' Tis then the first cock crows, not hailing day. But like some cheerful watchman of the night. Sheep break their fast on hilly mountain height. Faint silvery vapour shows the Milky Way. Above the wind-tossed trees I see the stars Sprinkled like diamond dust across the sky; The liills gleam in the moonliglit ghostly white. Listening to earth ' s silence. Men make wars To mar this peace. I pause and wonder why. Standing alone in the windy, starry night. Harriet Anderson, Form VTa., Barclay House. [24]