Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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PEACE AT LAST ! Here lies a poor woman who always was tired, She lived in a house where no servants were hired, The last words she said were: Dear friends, 1 am fioing;, here washing ain ' t wanted, nor sweeping nor sewing, And everything there is exact to my wishes, For where folks don ' t eat there ' s no washing of dishes. No heaving the Hoover all over the floors. Or having a day full of merciless chores. In heaven loud anthems forever are ringing. But having no voice. I ' ll keep clear of the singing. Don ' t mourn for me now, though you thought me a treasure Cause I ' m going to hecome a lady of leisure! Maeve Fogt, Form Vb, Gumming House, IF AT FIRST YOU DON ' T SUCCEED . . . SHE stood at the top of the hill. It was a race and she was Number Seventeen. Four- teen had just gone and Fifteen was waiting. Soon she was waiting. How would she make the first turn when everyone else had fallen? Five seconds to go — how would she know whether she was off the trail or not? Four seconds — three seconds — she couldn ' t ski. What was she doing in the race? Two seconds — one second — she would just have to make a fool of herself. Go ! She was off. If only she could get around the first turn all right, then she would be in the woods and she could not be seen. Perhaps if she snowploughed to the turn and went around it [21]