Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 19 text:

There is something monstrously beautiful about it. Huge, emotional and beginning to be more than ever aware of its power, it totters as a giant child, in order to stabilize itself in a new and unknown world. Anyone would agree that, when something becomes powerful, it does not succeed and is not able to exist by itself. Thousands of factors, powerful in their own way, must surround or compose that certain object. In the same way, the mass of the people is composed of individuals, each exercising a diflferent influence in his own sphere and as a whole representing a leading unit. More than ever before, our century, overlooking class, race, and creed, has given to every man the opportunity and right to do something for himself. Any successful outcome of this may not be kept by an individual or a group of somewhat privileged people, but is used for the benefit of the majority. ) Having thus taken the greatest step towards stabilizing their position, the twentieth century masses are the life and spirit of all endeavours, and their aim is to be able to do the little things, for from the little things are built the great things . MADEMOISELLE JUGE Five years ago, we paid tribute, in Trafalgar Echoes , to Mademoiselle Juge in honour of her tiventy-five years of service on the teaching staff. Aoic, after almost thirty-one years, Trafalgar is bidding her farewell. During nil this time Mademoiselle Juge has been a devoted and inspiring teacher, and hrr many pupils, both past and present, must recognize the great contribu- tion sill- has m ' ulf lo their liberal education. Although we deeply regret losing her. }( ■ fire glad i think that she trill now have leisure to enjoy the exercise oj her many and varied talents in the congenial atmosphere of her beloved I- ranee. One and all, u e wish her a long and happy life. [17|

Page 18 text:

IT was not a long time ago, when both magazines and newspapers had a declared war with their readers concerning the man of the mid-century. Who would it be? Truman, Einstein, Stalin or Churchill? . . . everybody had someone to suggest. The letters to tlie editors were numerous until the ciioice was made. Churchill became the man of the mid-century, in more than one magazine. 19.50 came, the subject was dropped, and no further comment was made. But who is the man who would accept such a conclusion? Wlio would overlook the mass of the people, who created and destroyed so as to make those fifty years the most tragic and yet the most admirable in history? Our age has been accused of several things at different times, but one statement that seems to repeat itself is that our world is a negative world and consequently a world of decline. Declining it may be, for those who were born in the late nineteenth century and, for one reason or another, have not witnessed from near enough, nor with the right understanding, the dawn and development of this new era. Unfortunately, these people are not the only ones who look upon social changes as dangerous to man. A great majority of these are this era ' s children: people who refuse to understand that our age ' s heritage is from the people, through the people, to the people. If we were ever asked to state the outstanding power of our age, we would undoubtedly find it behind governmental laws and factory walls. In both key places stands the mass of the people, powerful, unbreakable, resembling a rocky mountain, unshattered by wind or rain. [16]

Page 20 text:

THE HAND THE liand on Iier wrist was firm, but pentle, anrl tlic voice slie liearrl far away was soothing. As she fought lier way through the mist to conscious- ness, she reahzed she was in a hospital, and knew the hand was that of a doctor. How strong and comforting it was, and what miracles those hands could jierform ! They could save lives, make scars unnoticeable, and inspire great confidence and hope. The cool hand on her head must be that of a nurse. Then her thoughts drifted to another hand — the one she loved best. These hands had slim tapering fingers ending in nails like polished jewels. They were small, smooth and soothing, with the faint fragrance of gardenias, and could do such wonderful things. When running over the keys of a piano, these fingers had the power to transport one to an Utopia of mystery and haunting melody, or of gay, swi rling dancers. They could take thread and transform it into lace as delicate as Arachne ' s, and could paint the loveliest scenes. Such comfort and love were in those hands when they lightly touched someone in sorrow or pain. How slender and dainty they looked, folded in her lap, arranging flowers, or holding a fragile glass. Then there flashed into her mind another picture. This hand was large and rough from hard work. There were callouses on the thumbs, and the fingers were eaten away by the pricks of a needle. She sighed to think that this hand, which could also be so loving and kind, was not so beautiful as the first, for she loved it almost as well. Once again a hand appeared to her — small and chubby. How soft and dimply it was! With what confidence it clung to her finger, and how little it hurt when it hit her or tangled in her hair. The next hand which danced before her was small too, but grimy, with broken nails. It hurt when it pulled her hair, and although she was really very fond of it, there were times when she would gladly have broken it. [18]