Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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BTRON A DISPUTED AUTHORSHIP (If it h apologies ti John Kcndrick Bangs) THIS tale concerns a j:rou[ of illiistrious shades who have persuaded Charon to take them in his houseboat on a cruise ot the River Styx. Shakespeare, annoyed because his greatest work, Hamlet, had been criticized bv Bvron, whom he considered a mischievous younij cynic, told Charon to bring his doublet as he wished to seek nuire intelligent arul sympathetic company in the lounge. As he went downstairs, he turned around and caught sight of Byron, convulsed with laughter, reading a paper on wiiich Shakespeare had been writing. Thou villain. muttered Shakespeare, dost thou mock the spelling that I use, I. who have no equal in the world or here : Furiously he snatched up Nero ' s fiddle which unfortunatelv happened to be on the floor and threw it at Byron. Although the aim was true, the missile passed right through the young poet without disturbing him, for you see. he was only a shade. In the lounge. Sir Francis Bacon. Churchill, Hitler, and Nero were discussing the plight of literature on earth. Just as Shakespeare entered quietly, Bacon said, Last night, in Montreal. I saw a production of ' Hamlet ' presented by an Englishman named Wolfit. He seems to think he understands some of Will ' s plays. It was really rather well done, vou know, but of course, it was spoiled by the scenery. Oh, for a stage such as there used to be when I was on earth! Just before he died, Hamlet, who was por- trayed by olfit, gave such an eerie shudder that it almost made me wish I hadn ' t written the scene with so realistic a touch. On perceiving Shakespeare in the doorway, he blushed, and at a loss as to what he should say next, he went over to Nero, who was pursuing his favourite pastime, playing his fiddle. Come and join us. Shakespeare, called Churchill as he took his ever-present cigar from his mouth momentarily. We were discussing present day literature and would like to know how it impresses you. Hitler says that all this criticizing of the [25]

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At last the orchestra climbs into the pit and tunes up. Then the lights dim and people make a rush for their seats. The music plays softly and then bursts into God Save The King. I am afraid I never think much about the King, except that I pity him not being with me. Ah ! the enchanting hush as the curtain rises. Our eyes grow accustomed to the bright stage, and we see people dressed as we are, or, according to the play, in the costume of any age or place. To continue this as being at a play would not be correct, for I am in England, Africa, or Japan, or wherever the story takes place, and I am not myself, but each character in turn. So I shall skip to the intermission. The curtain falls, and I come back as out of a dream. I get up and stretch, and try to realize that it is an hour, not five minutes, since I sat down. I wander into the lobby. I love the friendly lobby, where the smoke is so thick, and the people are so crowded. I return to my seat, and enter a wild discussion as to whether so-and-so over-acted and somebody else hurt himself when he fell. The lights dim for the second time, and there is the bustle of people returning to their seats. The curtain rises once more on the enchanted stage, and I am oblivious of my surroundings. The plot becomes more and more exciting, and finally everyone is reconciled — or dead. There are the last few speeches, and the curtain calls, in which to catch a last glimpse of the actors. The play is over, or rather the performance, for the play will never be over for me. I have made new friends or renewed old friendships this evening. Finally I am dragged away by a sleepy family and once more I say good-night to the magic land of the theatre. Margo Cronyn, Form Va, Gumming House. THE JOYS OF WINTER The overshoes are jumbled by the cottage kitchen door. There ' s frost inside the hallway and there ' s snow upon the floor. The overcoats are steaming and the gloves are hardly dry, The scarves are hung like dishrags and the caps are shrunk awry. There ' s father in the basement, and he ' s furious and gray, For he ' s shovelling out the ashes ; it ' s the second time today. The eaves are hung with icicles; the sidewalk ' s thick with snow The children are indoors because there ' s nowhere else to go. The temperature is falling; there ' s a blizzard in the air, There ' s a drift beneath the window, and there ' s ice upon the stair. When I write of joys of winter, I can think of better topics. Like hibernation, summertime, or living in the tropics. Johanna Leipoldt, Form IIIb, Fairley House. [24]

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Canadian government should be forcibly stopped by the police. He thinks Hugh MacLennan should be liquidated for having dared to write ' Two Solitudes. ' What do you say? He gave Shakespeare the signal to contradict these opinions, for his greatest delight was to see the fiery little German rant and rave, and threaten to have everyone cast into a concentration camp, forgetting he was not on earth. As an Englishman, he began, I believe that free speech which includes criticism of the government, does much to help literature. Thou hast had much experience, Churchill, and wilt doubtless agree with me. But come, my friends, enough of this. Nero, hast thou completed thine after-dinner speech for this evening? No, Shakespeare, the Muses refuse to obey my command. I believe I shall be forced to stoop to stealing Churchill ' s most famous words. It ' s a pity, really, that he didn ' t write more than he did, for his style pleases me, although it can ' t be compared with that of Virgil or Horace, he added. Dost thou know, asked Shakespeare in a quiet voice while his eyes lighted up mischievously, who wrote his most famous speech? Why, Churchill, of course, answered the unsuspecting Nero. Dost thou recall the last time Pluto granted me permission to visit the earth, about four years ago? pursued the dauntless Elizabethan. I wandered aimlessly around London until I came to 10 Downing Street. Here in the library sat Churchill trying to compose a speech to be given in Parliament the next day, but inspiration had fled. I looked over his stooped shoulder and read what he had written. Suddenly I remembered a phrase around which I had wanted to make a play, but had never done so. I whispered it into his ear and he wrote it down immediately. Nero, dost thou follow me? It was I who wrote those immortal words, ' Never has so much been owed by so many to so few ' . es, added Bacon slyly, just as you wrote ' Hamlet ' . Enid Pascoe, Form Vb, Barclay House. [261