Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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Hesitant, shy of the world below, The moon, gaining courage, rode high ' Mid the first of the twinkling host of stars In the free and adventurous sky. Onward and on, the moon took its course, And as dawn brought the early, grey light. The moon dipped low, and with fading glow. It sank and was lost from sight. Joan Leslie, Form Va, Fairley House. MY QUANDARY ALONG with my class-mates, I have been asked to write something for the school magazine, but after wrestling with my poor, oft-defeated brain, I find that it is of no use. This is my trouble. Essays, poems, and other literary exercises do more, I believe, towards developing gray hairs in the average school-girl ' s head than going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. This, on my part at least, is due not to lack of imagination, but to lack of the power of expression. First I stare at the paper until it practically withers up, but this does not get me anywhere, so my gaze reverts to the window. What greets my eyes there but the leering faces of Milton, Shakespeare, and Wordsworth, who have absolutely no sympathy for me. They evidently think that I shall never pluck the laurel and the brown myrtles at any time, and I frankly agree with them. Even agreeing with these famous souls does me no good, for I know that great wrath will descend on me, if some piece of literature is not produced before long. Back I go to the task of wearing out several gross of pencils at both ends (one by writing, the other by chewing ) and several quires of paper. Later I find I have actually written several lines. Please note that I call them lines, for upon receiving back the corrected essay, I discover that there is a very sad lack of subjects for verbs, to say nothing of lost prepositions, and misplaced objects. Nevertheless, I take heart and bravely begin to rewrite. This time I think and ponder, but the only real result is a terrific headache, which I realize will do nothing towards improving my marks. In spite of this I manage to write a new page or so. By now the Puritan poet is actually laughing at my sad plight, but he would not, of course, think to offer help. Not on his strict soul ! Dickens, however, proves to be a much kindlier spirit and suggests that descriptive adjectives take up a lot of space. Then Lovelace floats by, with an intimation that if I really want to write, I should find a cold prison far more suitable. I doubt if I shall ever find peace, even when the Essay Days are over, for I shall still have to write letters. Helen Taylor, Form Va, Barclay House. [20]