Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 22 text:

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

Page 21 text:

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 )

Page 23 text:

Johnny on leave to break the weary hours; no more planning for him; no more working for him. Her eyes wandered to the sweater — no use sending it to him now. Poor Johnny, he would be cold out there in the grey, heaving seas without his sweater; and she sank into a dull apathy clutching it to her. She went out with her basket next morning as usual, wrapped in the thin shawl. But that day she never saw the hurrying crowds, and they hardly noticed the huddled figure with its pitiful bunch of faded stalks, for her mind was wandering with the yellow blooms. Later in the day a few thin flakes of snow began to fall; a policeman came up, his helmet crowned with a white plume Better go home, Grandma , he said; wind ' s getting up Then he stiffened and peered under the shawl at the tired face. Slowly he straightened up and blew his whistle. Elizabeth Maxwell, Senior Matriculation, Barclay House. WAR AND PEACE Once where happy children played, And housewives baked their bread, And farmers ploughed the earth brown fields, Now only lie the dead. War has struck; throughout the land A million men or more Have left their homes, their wives, their friends, For this is war. The tanks have rolled, the cannons roared, The battle has been fought, Why did they die? For freedom ' s sake, Their death was not for naught. For, surely, in the future years, The peace will come again, Homes will be homes, love will be love, And men will live like men. Jennifer Thomas, Form IIIb., Fairley House. TRAFALGAR ECHOES 1944 21