Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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pants and a blue jacket, and green socks; they look a bit like ' Dopey ' in ' Snow White ' , but of course they ' re much smaller. Pilots say that they ' re always grinning from ear to ear in a most insolent manner, and they make a peculiar sound rather like a chipmunk when they are up in the air. Some people say that they used to live in a cloud up in the sky, and they got very angry when the airplanes started flying through their land, so they took their revenge by bothering the R.A.F. pilots in England, but now a great many have become domesti- cated, and some have migrated to America. They live by drinking gasoline from air- planes, and they eat holes in the fusilage of ' planes that look exactly like bullet holes. They usually live in the cockpits of the airplanes, and they play all sorts of games there. One of their favourites is to play ' see-saw ' on the pointers of the instruments; and they love to pull the triggers of the guns at the wrong times; and to play ' hop-scotch ' on the bombsight; and when a pilot is trying to listen to his radio they make loud noises and laugh right in his ears. Some reports say that they used to enjoy riding down on the bombs, but they had to give it up because they lost so many hats that way that they ran out of coupons and couldn ' t get the material for new ones. Them Gremlins are supposed to fly by swimming through the air, and some people say that the feathers in their hats act as a kind of propeller, but I think they flap their big ears like birds. I ' m going to be a gremlinologist when I ' m grown up ! At this point the learned and breathless account of my young companion was rudely interrupted by the return of her mother, and I heaved a sigh of relief and made a thankful retreat towards home. Gwen Williams. Form Vb, Fairley House. FIGHTING MEN And these are the ones who are coming back, They ' re tired and worn and scarred; They have travelled over the weary track With a prayer, a gun and a heavy pack. Their shoulders are braided and barred. We ' re proud of them now with their weary grins, Their strong and capable hands; We admire their square and confident chins, We know that they ' re fighting to save our skins. And to rescue the conquered lands. They ' re fighting in heat and in heavy snow, With mortars and tanks and guns; They get to the place they ' re ordered to go Regardless of climate or land or foe. Our country is proud of her sons ! Jan Henry, Form IVa, Ross House. TRAFALGAR ECHOES 1944 )

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THEM GREMLINS Fairies have gone out of fashion. It ' s true, fairies are no longer included in th Who ' s Who of the rising generation. The other day I was assigned tin- dreaded tasl of entertaining an eight year old girl, and being rather unacquainted with the activities of modern young children, I dared to suggest a fairy story. Pooh, that subject ' s antiquated! my young charge immediately exclaimed, to my horror and amazement. It seems that elves and gnomes are now extinct: belonging to the old days, when yon were young, I was informed. For a moment I lacked the courage to reply, but then I came to the conclusion that I had so degraded myself that there could be no harm in making myself even lower in her estimation. Have you ever heard any fairy stories? I asked. Oh sure, but anyone would know that whoever started those things belongs in an asylum, she said. I was stunned, and again I felt very greatly in need of moral support. What makes you think there are no fairies? I asked warily. She stared at me for a moment making me most uncomfortable, and then decided to ignore the question. We were both silent, she thumbing her way idly through a picture book, and I planning my next attack. Look over there, I said, cutting out a paper doll. Do you see the sun streaming through that window? Can ' t you see the litte elves and fairies sliding down those rays? And if you listen carefully you can hear them laughing and calling to each other. Can ' t you see them? Huh, she replied with disgust, nothin ' but dust! This was appalling. I didn ' t know what to do: then I asked with desperation, But what do you think hides your clothes in the morning, and pushes over the ink bottle, and creaks the stair when you ' re trying to get out of the house without anyone seeing you? Immediately her eyes lit up, and her smile showed her missing front tooth, Oh, you mean Gremlins! My mind however failed to respond, Gremlins? I asked. Who are the Gremlins? Not THE Gremlins, the young lady said horrified, THEM Gremlins! Tell me about them Gremlins, I pleaded. What do they look like? Where do they live? Are they good or bad? Oh, tbem ' re awful bad. I was told, and I was about to correct her grammar but decided that it would be more prudent to yield to my better judgment, and remained silent. They ' re only little tiny men, and you can ' t see most of them unless you ' re ' air- minded ' , and they ' re awfully ugly. They ' re a sort of green colour and have big ears that slick out, and they wear little red hats with long green feathers, and usually brown IK TRAFALGAR ECHOES 1944

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GOLDEN ROD AS tlic wind swept round the corner, tin; old woman drew her threadbare shawl a little closer ahout thin shoulders. The golden rod in the wicker basket looked dusty, and frequent gusts had scattered its yellow bloom. The passersby scarceh hothered to glance at the old woman, and she knew that their minds were busy with more important affairs. Her shrivelled figure had sat there for many months, and at her eyes had grown dimmer, she had ceased to wonder about the lives and worries of the crowds which she saw. Her thoughts had turned to green fields and waving corn, and although she had never seen the country it was pictured in her mind as vividly as if she was then sitting amidst waving golden rod heneath a distant hlue sky, instead of in a sordid city street with a hunch of faded stalks in her lap. The big clock on the city hall struck six and she rose stiffly to her feet, gathering up the heavy basket at the same time. As she made her way slowly towards the poorer end of the town her thoughts turned back to her son, Johnny. He was in the Navy now, having joined up during the first week of the war. She remembered so well his last leave; he had just been promoted to Leading Seaman, and so they bad spent a few pence out of her meagre savings to buy a piece of his favourite cheese. Afterwards they had sat together by her fire while he told her ahout his life in the Navy. Rough, but clean , he had said, and she had suddenly realised that he too had longed for something wider and fresher than the streets of a city, and why he had hated his work as a newspaper boy. She was knitting him a sweater now to keep out those cold sprays; it was nearly finished and just needed to be sewn up. It had taken a long time to make because her fingers had stiffened sitting on cold corners, but into every stitch had gone her love, and her own longing. Up a flight of long, dreary stairs her stumbling feet climbed until they reached a door. It opened, and they crossed the threshold of a poor, bare room, almost filled by an iron bed, a chair and table. There was no fire in the grate now and the room was barren and empty. The walls were a dirty yellow, cracked and peeling, but everything was spotlessly clean, and the wooden boards showed signs of relentless scrubbing. She sank onto the chair and looked despondently at the golden rod — a lot of good it did her, worthless stuff. Head in hands her thoughts as always, drifted back to Johnny. She did hope he would be comfortable in his new sweater, perhaps it could be finished that evening and sent off. He did catch cold so — Mrs. Brien! Mrs. Brien! a man ' s raucous voice roused her from her dreams. Yes? The postman left this ' ere thing for you, looks official — like . Something was pushed under her door. She bent down and turned it over in her worn fingers, spelling out the address carefully. Certainly it was for her, but from whom? Who would want to write to her now? Wondering, she tore open the thin yellow envelope — a lawyer? (she had known one as a young girl). There on a slip of paper were the words, We regret — in action . They rang through her head and seemed unreal. Dazed, she realized what ihey meant; no more cheering visits from 20 TRAFALGAR ECHOES 1944