Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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Finally there was the hand of a man. It was large, but how gentle it could be. Of course, wlien she was naughty, it could hurt, but more often there was hidden in it a small present for her. What fun it was to be picked up and tossed in the air by those strong, brown hands! Suddenly they all appeared before her. The small white ones and the large brown ones held her tenderly, the chubby ones tangled in her hair, and the small grubby ones for once did not hurt as they clung to her arm. All at once there was a loud crash, and above her she saw a tremendous black hand. The hands on her let go and vanished into mist. She was picked up by the forbidding hand, and, as it bore her up into the darkness, she felt she wovild never again see the other hands she loved so well. Judy Vkooman, Form Arts VI, Barclay House. EXAMS ' Twas the night ere exam day, and all through my head, Everything was so muddled, that when I went to bed, All I dreamed of was Latin, and theorems, and stuff. In hopes that these horrors would not be too tough. I prayed that by morning my head would be clear, But all my hopes dwindled, as that time drew near. At last, to my sorrow, the dreaded morn came, And I rose from my bed in a very bad frame. As I entered the school with a feeling of woe, I ' m sure I forgot everything I did know. It ' s now one o ' clock, and this session is o ' er. But, oh, for tomorrow, when we ' ll have two more! Margaret Sparks, Form IVb. Ross House. IT HAPPENED AGAIN MK. AIVl ' HONY sat frowning on the doorstep of the apartment building, liis chin in his hands, and his bespectacled eyes staring unhappily into the bhie. All around him, people were tripping to and fro: gaily bedecked matrons with squealing babies, stout, bearded gentlemen tapping their canes importantly on the sidewalk, whistling newsboys shuffling along, and busy housewives bustling here and there, their arms filled with bundles. Mr. Anthony sat moodily on the steps. It had happened again! He had been, or rather, was about to be, evicted from his small three-roomed apartment. Ah, yes, this was a common occurrence, with the same complaint every time — mice! Mr. Anthony had a passion for white mice, and kept thirty-three in a large cage under his bed. Many people thought Mr. Anthony eccentric, but indeed he was far from it. He was just a gentle old man who loved bacon and eggs for breakfast, and went to visit his relatives at Christmas time. Although they (lichrt encourage his hobby, (the mice had to be boarded, at those times, at ilhirds ' , a reliable pet shop ) they never said anything unpleasant about the subject, as they were not really interested in mice or Mr. Anthony. [19]

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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]

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Mr. Anthony lived cautiously, that is, he was careful about spending money, but he hated going to the bother of hunting a new apartment. His thoughts were therefore troubled as he watched the passers-by, and his gentle mind was stirred up against the wealthy Widow Atcherby, who, with honourable intentions, had tripped to his rooms that morning, and had entered the living-room, intending, as she discovered his absence, to wait for him. Unfortunately, no one except Mr. Anthony had known that the mice were having their morning stroll, and as a result, the other occupants of the building had seen a wonderful spectacle — that of Widow Atcherby rushing out of Mr. Anthony ' s apartment, shrieking furiously that the ferocious beasts had bitten her, made runs in her stockings, and got into her furs. She complained to the landlord, dramatically claiming that either she or that dreadful mouse-man must go! Mr. Anthony was evicted, and was not at all surprised. The trouble with humans, thought the old gentleman, is that they do not appreciate mice. He protested that his mice were not at all fierce, but indeed very gentle, and what if they did have certain dislikes and likings for the human race? Every man and mouse is entitled to his own private feelings. His argu- ments were overlooked, however, and he was told firmly that he would have to leave. Sadly, Mr. Anthony arose from the steps, went to his rooms, and packed his belongings. A little while later he was down on the street once more, a bag in one hand, and a covered cage in the other, a gentle figure with kindly eyes shining behind his spectacles. He paused, then started slowly down the street, where we leave him for now. But does no one appreciate a kind old gentleman and his thirty-three mice? Is there no place for him to stay permanently? Ah, but there is, there is indeed. If you will look up at the sky, you will see a soft fleecy white cloud floating along. On that cloud reclines a gentle-faced angel, an elderly angel with spectacles. But what are sitting beside him; what are curled up by his toes and ears? What are those little pink and white blobs that are sitting on the cloud with him? Why, they are mice, white mice! Mr. Anthony is at peace l st! Jan Torrance, Form Vb, Fairley House. POET-TRY If I could write poetry, prose or a song. My homework would never have taken so long. But my mind is a blank when the editor rages For something to print in the magazine pages. Like the student of old who did ponder all night, I thought and I tried till the dawn became light. I thought of success, and of courage, and hope. Oh, for the genius of a poet like Pope! If the words and their metres would pour out with ease, — Then I wouldn ' t take time writing rhymes such as these. My efforts are fruitless and far from worthwhile, I command neither language, ideas, nor style. So, to mottoes in Latin — Spem Successus Alit . I ' ll stick to my lessons, at my desk where I sit. Susan Racey, Form Va, Fairley House. [20]