Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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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]

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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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slowly , . . She tried it. She would be all right if she didn ' t get off the trail. Around the turn she went and into a snowdrift. No sooner had she touched the snow than she was up again. She didn ' t waste very much time on that turn. If she could get up as fast as that every time she fell, she might only take two minutes (it was a one-minute run). Horrors! Her ski was off. Why had she asked her father to adjust the harness the night before? She put it on in a hurry and was off down the hill again. She was in the woods now, and nobody could laugh at her, anyway. She was going awfully fast. Why had she put so much wax on her skis? She would slow up now for the next turn. Her skis crossed! She was down, and her ski was off again. Why hadn ' t she stayed at home? Why did she have to be in the silly old race? She was away once more. Another hair- pin turn! To be on the safe side she sat down, slid around the turn, and then stood up again. She must have taken five minutes already. She wished she were at home on the nice gentle slope where she spent her weekends skiing. She would never go in a race again. More turns, more spills, and she was almost finished — just one more turn and she was out of the woods. She was on it before she could say boo . Down she went in a spray of snow; she was now thoroughly covered with snow. How they would laugh when she arrived at the finish line, looking as if she had come all the way down in a sitting position ! She got up, brushed herself off, and started once more when she had put her ski back on. Once she got to the end she would say good-bye to this hill forever. She heaved a sigh of relief as she saw the finishing flags ahead of her. She passed them, stopped, and sank into the snow as if it were a nice soft bed. Number Seventeen, three minutes , she heard someone call. Three minutes was not bad considering that she had lost her ski three times, and had fallen down so many times, but she could do better. Perhaps she would enter again next year to see if she could do it in two minutes. Betty Bown, Form IVb, Barclay House. [22]