Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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on the top of the hill, almost hi(Ulen by the shadows. Slie stood with her arms flung up and out, and her face u|)lifted. Her kui , thirk hair was liardly diseernihie a-jainst the darkening hill, yet it was easv to imagine how beautiful it must be. I could alnu st hear tiie siKer notes issuing from her uiouth. Here was my hidden serenader. J()A Li CAS. Korm IVb. Fairley House. THE CLIMBER ith eager steps 1 climbed the hill And struggled toward its snow-capped top, Inch sparkled in the morning sun Ami lured me on. I could not stop. Then suddenly a tiny thought Possessed me. and began to grow. Until it filled my very brain; A voice within me murmured low : jNo matter what, you must keep on! It will be infinitely sweet To moiuit the highest peak and see This pun world beneath your feet! Like one possessed. I struggled on And gathered strength with every stride; And when at last I scaled the top My tired heart felt a surge of pride. With eyes intent upon the sky, I marvelled at its bluish glow. Then, proud and confident, I turned To gaze on that which lay below. But what was thh ' f My senses reeled. I stared down into endless space; The earth rocked crazily. I gasped. Sheer terror mirroreil in my face. The same low voice within me stirred And whispered with a gentle sigh: ' ' You cannot see the world below. Ambition made you climb too high . Judy Smith, Form Va, Barclay House. THE PERFECT CRIME I COMMITTED the perfect crime! Please do not scoff. I did. My conscience pricked me, so I told the police. They laughed when I told them, and said that the likes of me could not do anything harmful. Still you laugh? You want me to tell my story? All right then — judge for yourself. I am a little man, not much over five feet, quite fat, and very ordinary. I am not

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LITERARY THE INDIAN GIRL LAST autumn I spent one short but memorable week in Caledonia, a tiny, old- f fashioned village on the shores of Lake Huron. While there I devoted most of my time to photography and canoeing, or perhaps I should say to a combination of both. Whenever I could, I borrowed the canoe of a little old fisherman wlio lived nearby. Then, taking my lunch and camera, I would ex- plore the meandering streams that branched off the main body of water. Along the way I took snapshots. My last complete day at Caledonia was spent in this fashion. I was idly drifting down one of these streams oblivious to everything except my dreams, when suddenly I heard the sound of distant singing. I caught hold of the paddle and made Celia speed down the stream in search of the voice. I realized I was approaching the singer as the tone became clearer and louder every minute. Finally, the river entered a miniature lake, on one side of which was located an Indian Reservation. Still, I could not find the person from whose lips that beautiful music was flowing, music unlike any I had ever heard. As the voice continued I was filled with a violent desire to leave civilization and live alone, always in the open; to be a comrade of birds and animals; to sleep with a soft breeze soothing me; and to feel the wild patter of raindrops on my face. Suddenly the music stopped and the silence was so complete that I wanted to scream. Instead, I reached for my camera and took a picture of all that was before me, so that I might liave something tangible with which to strengthen my memory of the singing. Slowly I turned the canoe around to begin the homeward journey, and after four hours of steady paddling I reached Caledonia exhausted. The next morning, before we left for Montreal, I developed the last pictures I had taken. Anxiously I awaited the results of the picture taken at the Indian Reservation. When all work on it was completed, I gazed at it in surprise. There was a perfect reproduction of the sun blending in with the glass-like lake, and the shadows of the hill above the water made a marvellous background for the wooden cabins in which the Indians lived. As I scanned the picture, I beheld something that had remained unseen to me the day before. There was a girl in the picture, an Indian girl, standing [16]

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the type one bothers to look at twice. By profession I am a shoemaker, and I own a little shop in the heart of downtown. I am a great reader of murder mysteries. I enjoy reading them. Most of the plots are very feeble, and I spend my spare time improving them so that no clues are left. Having read little else in the last fifty years, I wondered how it would feel to have committed a perfect crime. I planned to find out. I decided that the first person who entered my shop the next day would be my victim. It happened that it was a young man, not quite thirty, I should think, definitely athletic. He wanted his shoes resoled while he waited. I took them and went into the back of the shop. I had outlined all the details the night before. I had my mechanism all ready. Hastily I resoled the shoes. Then I pried off one heel, hollowed it out, and put in a special little machine I had been working on all during the night. I shall not describe it, for I want no one to know. I put the heel back on, and returned the shoes. As the customer left, I shut up my shop to follow him. For ten minutes I dogged his shadow along the street. Suddenly there was a loud puff . People looked around but could see nothing. Yes, nothing, for he had completely disappeared. I had put an explosive in my machine and had timed it to go off ten minutes after I had set the fuse. So these were the sensations I had wanted to feel. My chest swelled with satisfac- tion; my step was brisker. That night, after dinner, I sat down to think it over. I had a long, heated argument with myself, and it was after midnight when I decided to give myself up to the police. Even at that late hour I went to them and told them all. They laughed, as you have laughed, and told me to go back to my mystery stories. I could not fool them ! You laughed before, but you do not laugh now. Why? Nora Corley, Form Junior VI, Barclay House. OCTOBER IN THE COUNTRY Now beauty falls in slow sweet drops Over the rim of Plenty ' s Horn, Pouring forth in deep brown streams Flowing past full fields of corn. Colour is splashed on wooded slopes Sharp to the eye, yet mingled so One cannot tell which purple, gold, Or scarlet is — nor wish to know. Up from the farmhouse roof the smoke Creeps in the drowsy spirals grey. And melts to ether and the lines Of hills and houses fade away. A gentle mist clings on the verge Of the horizon like a canvas blurred About the edges by a careless brush And in the distance wings a bird. .Joyce McLean, Form Senior Sixth, Barclay House.