Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

Page 23 text:

A JOURNEY TO ATHENS IT all began last Tuesday night when I was doing my history homework. That day in school Miss Harvie had been telling us about Alcibiades and the Sicilian Expedition. As I sat there, my head spun around and my eyes went blurry and I felt myself fading away . . . then all of a sudden everything was clear, but where was my history book, my bed, my desk? In place of all these things was a strange marble building and a man standing on the steps. He looked very familiar, not my cousin Joe, not Uncle Jack — who else but Alcibiades! I walked over to him and introduced myself. I ' m Mary Cliff from the twentieth century A.D., I said. He stared at me and then said he was Alcibiades, son of so-and-so (some name that I can ' t spell). Al, I said, it would please me very much if you would take me on a conducted tour through Athens. He replied, We shall just have time, because I am not due to deliver my speech for a while yet. We started off down the streets, heading for the Acropolis. I must admit that I was very much pleased at having such a handsome man leading me about the strange city of Athens. The people seemed to know him, and made way for him. I saw Pericles ' house which was very beautiful, and many others. As we approached the Acropolis, I could make out the Parthenon, which is the greatest building on the Acropolis. At last we arrived at the foot of the long stairway leading up to the top. After pufTing and panting, we reached the top, and I am sure that I have never been in a more beautifvil place in my life. The view of Athens was simply superb, and as I gazed up at the huge Parthenon my heart went pit-a-pat. We stepped inside the massive doorway into a gigantic room. In the centre of the room stood the beautiful statue of Athena, all made of gold and ivory. At her pedestal two people, a man and a woman, stood talking. As we drew nearer, I noticed that the man was Socrates, and the woman was none other than Miss Harvie. I was never more surprised in my life, but she was most likely as flabbergasted as I was. Miss Harvie, I want you to meet Alcibiades, I said. Mary, I would like you to meet Socrates, she replied. We all shook hands and chatted awhile, then Al and I continued on our tour, and let Miss Harvie and Socrates continue their conversation about philosophy. After going through the buildings on the Acropolis, Alcibiades took me to the beginning of the Long Walls and to the market places where the dicasteries met. As he was showing me these places, he told me his plans for an expedition to Sicily to try to end the wars between Sparta and Athens. They were wonderful plans and I told him that I hoped they would turn out successfully. It was nearly time for his speech, and as we had done so much walking, I was feeling very tired. I saw a stone bench that looked comfortable, so I walked toward it, but before I could reach it I slipped and fell with a thud and niy liead grazed the bench. I felt myself floating through the air with a k tni t before my eyes, then the mist started to clear up and I felt myself ittiiig on a liard cliair. Everything seemed familiar, my Myers ' General History, ni hid and my desk. I then realized that I must have fallen asleep. I really (l it I n lightened ahoiil Athens, but I was very glad to be home. Mary Cliff, Form IVb, Ross House. 121]

Page 22 text:

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]

Page 24 text:

MONTREAL -1900 NEW YEAR ' S EVE THE train grinds to a stop, and the weary passengers alight, glad to be out of the cold, uncomfortable coaches. It is a long walk through the deep snow, and as they pass the wheezing engine with its oversized smokestack, the dim half light of the street lamps shows the entrance to Windsor Station. Almost stumbling, many of them hindered by luggage, the small, almost forlorn looking, group makes its way into the station, and reveals itself: the women wearing long, high waisted, full skirts, many of them having trains, and rather fussy hats, the men clad in formal costume — tails, very tight trousers and silk hats . They file through the station, practically empty except for the usual loafers, and out into the cold stormy night once more. The long line of horse- drawn sleighs presents a picturesque sight waiting in the falling snow, the patient horses flicking their tails, and the coachmen seated high upon the boxes in their fur rugs, sending clouds of breath up into the night. Beyond this, a new landmark, St. George ' s Church, and then nothing . . . but snow, and the lights of the Windsor Hotel twinkling in the distance. A cold biting wind sweeps across from deserted Dominion Square, a merciless wind ( Continued on page 27) [22]