Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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for my brother. I grew up, and we went away; but I still think of the wind rustling through the trees and blowing through my hair, of the heady scent of apple blossoms, and the wonder of nature as I discovered it in a puppy ' s blue eyes. How vividly I remember! Isabel Pearce, Arts VI, Barclay House. A CROWD There ' s something nice about a crowd, A shoving, pushing, talking mob. To work my way against the flow: To wriggle past, to dodge, a job Of skill : avoid or crash, I go While others come. Or else to be Content to let them bear me up. Sweep me along the general way. j I like a crowd, I like to see The different faces, smell the smells: Tobacco, perfume, and to know The brush of fur upon my cheek. The scratch of tweed. I like to go Among the people and to hear The snatches gleaned of other lives. Fragments, scraps come to the ear: You know, dear, John had seven wives! I thought I ' d die! Oh, did you know—? To feel that all around me there Are countless other people each With secret joys, a grief to bear. To walk with humble and with proud I like the feeling in the air: There ' s something nice about a crowd. Caryl Churchill, Form IIIa, Cumming House. LE MARDI GRAS QUELLE joyeuse journee nous avons passee le jour du Mardi Gras, tout le monde etait heureux. Avec des rires et des cris de joie nous sommes partis voir le defile du carnaval. Comme l es costumes etaient jolis! II y en avait plusieurs de brillantes couleurs et d ' autres un peu effrayants avec leurs masques grima ants! De magnifiques voitures passaient, emmenant des personnages, des acrobates, des clowns et que sais-je encore? Helas il se faisait tard, nous sommes rentres a la maison. Une bonne surprise nous y attendait. Des crepes etaient preparees, et bien entendu nous avons chacun lance une crepe en I ' air pour la retourner dans la poele. C ' est signe de chance pour toute I ' annee, ainsi le dit la tradition ! . . . Frankie Galland, Form IIIa, Barclay House. [27]

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REMEMBERING PERHAPS we all have certain things in life which we do not cherish or value highly until they are gone. Then with nothing but memories of them, how dear they are to us, for it is very true that the good things and not the bad are what we remember. It is this way with a person you love who has died, with a friend who has gone a vay, with certain wonderful days we look back on. It is this way with a home you have left forever. It was home before we had even fully moved in. I remember my discovery of the chickens in their yard, and the thrill of giving them grain. I remember the fun of putting up curtains as I looked out over rolling acres of trees, little, uniform fruit trees, with dark firs and underbrush in the background. When we lit the fire in the big stone fireplace, and had a real yule log at C.hristmas, how vivid it all is yet. And my father, dragging in a snow-covered tree chopped from our own land was a picture I ' ll never forget. I remember how the long country road looked after a fresh snowfall, the tall spruce and pine trees that lined it snow-laden and sparkling in the sun. Our first winter there was the year of the big snowfall, and though the blizzards howled round us, we were secure in the big old house with the stone fireplace. Then the spring came, and how wonderful it was. Tiny, fluffy baby chicks came into the world, and how I loved to pick them up and touch their downy backs. There were puppies, too, darling, rollicking puppies who followed me every morning when I went to fee;! the hens. And the orchard! Wonderful, nodding blossoms that scented the whole world, and later fell so that it seemed once more that the ground was covered with snow. After the apple blossoms came the lilacs, and with the lilacs came summer. Who would want to go away for a summer holiday with all this at home? Nevertheless, we did go away, and when we came back it was August, and even Lake Ontario was warm enovigh for swimming. Down to the beach we went, every afternoon, and I got tanned and freckled, and so did my baby brother who grew out of all his sunsuits. The puppies grew leggy and frolicksome, and were gradually given away; the baby chicks were shipped off in crates, babies no more but white leghorns. Grade A. We gradually rolled into September, a warm, sunny September with frosty nights. There were red, rosy apples on the trees, and some yellow ones with a nutty flavour that we liked better than the reds. It was an important September for me because I was starting school, and I made friends who would come home to eat apples and play until a sudden chill warned us that it was time for supper. In October the trees changed, and the magic green about us changed to gold and red, and at night there would be a thin film of ice on our creek. How suddenly it was November, sometimes bleak and always chilly, but beautiful for the fury of its winds and the moaning of now leafless trees. Then the first snow was thrilling me, and it was Christmas time again, and we had been there a whole year. All the years were very much alike after that; puppies and c hicks and kittens came and went, and the seasons faithfully rolled our way with their changing beauties. We even acquired a horse at one point, and later a pony [26]

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A WINTER SCENE S I stood silent by the beautifully frosted window, it was plain to me ■LX- that Jack Frost had been there not long ago. Oh, look! I do believe he ' s painting the needles of that great old pine standing beside the winding path, f or its branches are drooping slightly as he hops from bough to bough. And now he ' s dancing around the little pond with his wee brush. The wise old evergreens that grow at the edge of the pond lean over every now and then, for they wouldn ' t want Jack to be interrupted in his great work. I gazed with rapture at a scene wondrous to behold. It was down in the valley, beyond the sparkling pond where Jack is now so busy. A little French- Canadian village lay tucked in among the many hills and mountains, the dark shiny green of the hemlocks framing this picturesque scene. This tiny village is softly blanketed with new-fallen snow that glitters like precious gems in the bright sunshine. The pretty little stone church with its spire that seems to reach to the heavens is the centre of all the activity. I could even hear the merry sleighbells as I watched the horses pidling the sleighs fille d with jovial French-Canadians. The sleighs, nearly all a bright red, were taking the people from church to their homes. Most of their houses are very old, dating back to the early pioneer days. They have roofs sloping almost to the ground, and porches, supported by heavy evergreen logs, running along two sides of the house. I could well imagine the thickness of the walls in those French-(]anadian homes. If I were standing a little closer to this village, I would surely see the children ' s lavighing faces as they built a jolly snowman or slid down the slanting roofs to land in a huge pile of fresh snow. These youngsters would be clad in brightly coloured garments probably spun by their mothers. All French-Canadian people love glowing hues. My eyes shifted as I wondered what little Jack was doing. Do you think I could spot him? You know he ' s very tiny. I saw a! furry shape hopping along at a great speed. I do believe it was Peter the Rabbit. Peter stopped and perked up those pink ears of his to listen. Can you guess what I saw? Of course — little Jack Frost. He was perched on one of those big, soft ears of Peter ' s getting a ride to that little cedar at the other end of the winding path. Susan Hallett, Form IIIb, Barclay House. THE HORSE FAIR ' Twas on a Monday morning That I went to the fair. There was a sorrel mare, A foal was by her side. There was an Arab colt And all the village people Were gathered in the square, Which I should like to ride. There was a chestnut stallion With muscles bulging out. There was a dappled gray With legs so firm and stout. There was a small black gelding Which then and there was sold. There was a horse from Spain, Its coat was shining gold. [28] .1