Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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.

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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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THE CHURCH A(iAI ST the deep, rirh blue ot tlie sunset sky, the square stone tower of the old church stood out steeply. Shadowed {ireen hiwns, leaf-strewn, stretched out from its ivv covered sides. The hist ravs of tlie evening sun caught one of the windows and shone fire, wliile the birds twittered ceaselessly in the nearby trees, as they settled down for the night. The Church was high and large, its roof forming a pointed arch, and the bell hinig silent in the tower. The stones were ihirk with age and their sharp points had been smoothed and rounded by the weathering of many storms. Inside, the church was silent, save for the creaking of the massive, wooden door as it closed after me, sluitting out the sunlight and encasing me in a soft sheltered gloom. The walls were panelled with rich, brown wood, and the ceiling rose to a sharp peak, high above, creating a feeling of vastness, while the marble pillars holding it up, gave a sense of security and safety. The pews stretched out on both sides of the wide middle aisle down which I slowly walked, admiring the gold and green of the altar cloths in the chancel before me. The golden eagle whicli formed the lectern, its wings stretched wide to hold the Bible, gazed at me steadily and the two carved wooden seraphs on the baptismal font smiled at each other. On the windows in beautifid stained ulass were the saints made softly alive by the light shining through them. There were plaques on the wall in memory of loved ones long dead, one — large and bronze — bore the names of those who had fought and died in the two wars. The Sim. tlirougli the windows, slione on the organ pipes and played colours on them, then slipped down and lit up the eagle ' s eye, taking the calmness from it, and making him glare balefully. I turned around and walked slowly out, opening the door and standing under the high arch with the dying sun blinding my eyes and felt rested and content wit h God, who could empower people to build such tributes to His love. Jan Henry, Form Junior VI, Ross House. MOONRISE Slowly the pale, full moon rose up. Its path ' cross the heavens to take, The golden beams threw shimmering gleams On the peaceful mirror lake. The skies which were quickly deepening mauve. Wrapped the world in a soft, dark cloak. The woodland bird was not to be heard. And night held the woodland folk. [19]