Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Two reat blue herons built themselves a nest in the topmost limbs of a fir tree near the home of the lirev owl. For weeks the owl had contented himself with killing; weasels, rabbits, miee, and small birds, but as the days passed, his longin-i for a young; heron grew more and more intense. The heron and his mate were the only creatures whom the sw ift, iirev owl had not terrorized, and so one day he circled slowly from his perch on a dead pine and winged iiis way toward the heron ' s nest. Never having been vanquished and not knowing the meaning of fear, the grey owl boldlv attacked the heron ' s mate. After a futile attenipt to defend both herself and her voung, she gave up her battle for sur i al and hung dead from the talons of her foe. ith his great wings beating furiously, the ow l released the weight of the dead heron, but turned too late to meet the swift blue rocket from above. His small eyes blind with anger, the blue heron thrust bis strong, slender beak deep into the neck of the grev owl. The great bird fell dead at the side of his last conquest; the forest was free from the grey, merciless intruder. Anne Pattisox, Form IVa, Ross House. THE BATTLE OF MARATHON The Battle of Marathon — a tale so old. And yet so much that can be told Of valour, courage, and brave men — A task too great for any pen. The Persians came from o ' er the sea With army good in each degree And landed proudly on the shore. Assured that victorv w as in store. Athenians warned, were waiting near To fight for freedom. Bow and spear Were used with strategy and might; The order of the day was fight. And fight they did though one to ten. They pushed astonished tired men Back to their ships. The battle o ' er, Their land was saved to them once more. Ann McDougall, Form IVa, Barclay House. [21]

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DOGGONE DOGGEREL I shall ne ' er a poet be — I haven ' t the mentality, Rhymes will never come to me, (This is hopeless — as you see). Here I sit and think and think. And dip my pen into the ink. My brain I ' m sure is on the blink. ( Why don ' t I throw this down the sink ? ) Now this poem I must close. With it I shall end my woes. If you have suffered, please repose, (The stream of words no longer flows). Betty Mills, Form Vb, Barclay House. THE INTRUDER THE ship lay by the sea, half buried in the sand. It looked like the skeleton of a long-dead sea monster with its ribs worn smooth and grey by the wind and rain of many years. Not a living creature had touched this weather-beaten hull ever since it came to rest among these rocks — not a living creature except the tiny mice which lived and died in holes and crevices in the worn and rotting timbers. Then one dusk a great grey shadow, silhouetted against the sinking sun, winged its way over the few remaining yards of shingle and dropped exhausted on the deck. The great owl had flown miles over the sea battling a wind too strong even for its powerful wings. Now it slept while the mice scampered unconcernedly round its huddled form. Sleeping all through the next day, the owl woke at night hungry and with new life surging through its strong body under the armour of stone-grey feathers. Guided by small squeaking sounds made by the mice, the great grey stranger soon satisfied his hunger and ended forever the scampering of many small feet. Then, rested and fed, the owl rose into the night sky and winged his way swiftly inland over strange new forests. A rabbit, hopping warily over a meadow, saw a great shadow slip swiftly over the grass. Seconds later the grey stranger was bearing away his first kill in this new land. A feeling of new-found power rushed over the owl, and in the following months he became the terror of the forest — a swift and deadly intruder in a formerly peaceful place. Winter came and the land was covered with snow. Food became scarce and on many occasions the grey owl could not find even one of the poor, thin meadow mice which he had once scorned to touch. His great strong body grew thin and he despaired of surviving the winter when the streams again began to run, and mice and birds returned to an awakening forest. [20]

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HOW TO SKI — IN ONE EASY LESSON STARTLED by the clang of my alarm clock, I jumped out of bed to turn the noisy thing off. I stood in the middle of the room wondering what day it was, and why I was up so early. The thought came to me, as I was swaying in the cold darkness of my room — I was going up north for the day. During the past week I had bought a book entitled How to Ski — In One Easy Lesson . The man at the store said it was guaranteed to teach the reader how to ski — if not, the money was refunded. All you had to do was read the book, practise the posi- tions in any room — called dry skiing I think — and you were ready for any hill in the Laurentians. Now I was going up North to Shawbridge to try my luck. I hastily donned my new red ski-sviit ( Irving ' s of course), washed down a piece of toast with some cocoa, grabbed my skiis and knapsack, and tore for the streetcar. I never realized that it was such an art to get skiis on a streetcar. I went in one side of the door and my skiis, somehow, got in the other side. I finally adjusted myself and sat primly at the back. I noticed two boys looking me up and down, and nudging each other with what I thought were signs of approval. Just then we rounded the corner at Claremont and my skiis went crashing to the floor, hitting the two boys on the way. Why do such things always happen to me? We arrived at Shawbridge and I was anxious to put on my new boards (the local name for skiis) and see if that book was really right. My skiis seemed to go in the right direction anyway. This was not my first time on skiis, you understand; I had tried them years ago but I had given up the sport as a bad job. I had heard that all tows went so fast that it was hard to concentrate on both your hands and feet going up. I grabbed the tow and hung on for dear life. I hardly moved at all. I decided to get out my book on How to Ski . . . and brush up on a few facts. The next thing I knew, I was at the top of the hill, lying with my face in the snow, and a pile of people and skiis on top of me. I stood up, regained my composure, and started down the hill for my great per- formance. I tried to turn, but nothing happened. I went faster and faster. I couldn ' t even fall. I seemed frozen into position — and what a position, as I heard some- body say. I headed for a clear space, but that space seemed to fill up with people as I neared it. I grabbed somebody in order to try and stop myself, but I kept on going. I saw the tow house coming nearer; then everything went black. The next thing I was aware of was being strapped on to a toboggan. I saw my new skiis broken into smithereens, and I saw a big piece of red cloth on the side of the tow house. I presumed it was part of my new ski-suit. I went down to the city in the baggage car. I was all ready to go from the station to the store and get my money back on that book, but I was put in an ambulance and spent a few delightful months with both legs in the air. Margaret Patterson, Form VI Arts, Gumming House. [22]