Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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and his words went nnnttered. Lying still lie watched the gardener go about his work. After having completed any pruning, rearranging and plucking up that had to be done to the beautiful array of flowers and trees that peopled this garden, the gardener turned to the single flower with the divinely lovely petals, but which was being choked by the growth of weeds twined about its body. Taking his shears he began to root away the malicious murderers. While he cut, he spoke, and the man behind the hedge listened, first in disbelief, then in humility, and finally in great joy. The words he heard were these . . . This flower is mankind. When she was young she used to glance up to the great height achieved by her more experienced fellows. All she desired was to grow to an equal height, and so feel the glorious rays of the warm and friendly sun issuing life and beauty to her veins. But as time went on, the little flower began to suspect that never would she reach the desired height. Many of her companions had long since passed her in the race. At last, discouraged and despairing, she felt ashamed of her failure to grow. She sensed the mockery of her more successful neighbours and, humiliated, she drooped and tried to hide from the eyes of others. The deceiving weeds rushed to her assistance, oflFering their stranglehold embrace as an escape from the world. Once entangled in their grasp, she realized her mistake, and, in the hope of redeeming herself, ghe struggled onward, looking ever upward to the distant sim, forever conscious of the grip had by aliens on her body. Yet although she persisted, the weeds constantly gained power over her, until now only her petals remain free from their grasp. I have come to release her from these enemies, for I perceive that her soul lies in her petals. Yes, this flower is called mankind. The gardener tore from the stem of the flower the encircling weeds, and she slowly reached upwards until her petals kissed the face of God. The man under the hedge sprang to his feet and, at last understanding, he ran towards the gate in the wall and back to Life. There is no escape, no flight from life — it must be found within the confines of that existence which we call the Mind. Joan Lucas, Form Senior VI, Fairley House. FOR WHAT WE ARE ABOUT TO RECEIVE . . . S I BOWED my head at grace before our Thanksgiving dinner, many reflec- tions passed through my mind. . . . What would be the reaction of European boys and girls if, for one miraculous day, they were given the opportunity of going to a football game, as I had done that afternoon? There must be thousands of people whose one remaining link with the past was their dream to taste what was before me — the white slices of turkey, the bright green brussels sprouts and peas, with the orange carrots for contrast, and the fluffy mashed potatoes topped with rich, brown gravy. How long has it been since those people have looked at the trees for their beauty, rather than for the warmth they would bring this winter? I wondered how many of them had inhaled the air filled with the smoke of burning leaves and had felt it really worth while to be alive in this wonderful season of Thanksgiving. . . . May the Lord make us truly thankful. Joan Knight, Form Arts VI, Ross House. [22]

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SUCCESS Success is not found overnifjlit Instead with time it grows, Then it becomes a richer liarvest, And springs from seed it sows. The road is neither straight nor even But rough and very high. And as we climb, it seems to stretcli Still farther in the sky. The path, a steep and narrow one, Hard, and jagged of stone, Yet upward, onward, let us plod, Undaunted and alone. Success is not in merely fame, In glory or great wealth, Instead, the greatest victory Is mastery of self. Beverley Van Horne, Form Arts VI, Fairlcy House. FARM AUCTIONS SUMMERS in the country are enlivened by farm auctions, to which my friends and I go in cycling hordes. These auctions, which are held from time to time on the many farms in the neighbourliood of Rosemere, are never- failing sources of delight from the point of view both of the odd purchases to be made and of the people whom we rudely refer to as characters . Both the time and the place of the auction are given in the local paper, La Voix des Milles Isles , along with a long list of articles and the reason for the sale. The location of the farm is usually given with a fair degree of accuracy, but, by adding from two to three hours to the time stated, we usually arrive to find the auctioneer having a pre-auction guzzle from one of the two bottles carried in his hip pockets. To these bottles, one of which is usually rye and the other scotch, he refers at frequent intervals, all the while remarking that the day is un peu froid . Somehow, the day manages to be un peu froid even when the thermometer is hitting eighty degrees in the shade! Having sufficiently warmed himself, the auctioneer proceeds to read the conditions of sale in a rapid and confusing version of the French language. This we do not try to deciplier, but wait instead for the fun to begin. The wait is short, for soon the contents of junk sheds, storage houses, and barns are brought out. Cardboard boxes full of such objects as carriage lamps, powder horns, sleigh bells, sugar moulds, and the occasional piece of beautiful old china are soon being disposed of for about twenty-five cents each. Hand- blown bottles, of the true bottle-green, make lovely lamps and may be had for [24]