Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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This selling will continue to a very late hour. Then the baskets will he placed once again on the head, and the journey homewards will hegin. Market-day is over for another week. But there is a second side to the lives of these people — that which is reflected in their music, from the dirge-song of a road-mender as he swings his pick-axe, to the well-known calypso hands with the rhythmic beat of the drums, strumming of guitars and shaking of the maracas. As they play, they become a part of the music. It is in their eyes, their voices, and the swaying movements of their bodies. They have never had a lesson on an instrument, for they do not need it, surrounded as they are by the music of the sea, and the tropical flowers and animals. Yes, they live a unique life, untouched as yet, it seems, by the surging tide of civilization. Jeannette Steele, Arts VI, Fairley House. LIGHT AND SHADE THE SUN had sunk behind the hills, and all the earth was dark. One tree stood, charcoal-black against the purple veil of night. Its branches, drooping on the snowy ground, lifted as breezes blew them all about, calling, frantically calling to anyone to come and watch, in awe and wonder, the coming of the night. And then the moon came up and sat upon a pine-tree, crowning it with beauty, and rays of glistening moonbeams scattered to the ground, picking out the sparkling highlights of the mauve-coloured snow that blanketed the earth. Little lumps of downy snow, sliding on the slippery branches of the trees, shimmered in the night, and bathed each tree in splendour. Stars began to twinkle in the blue-black sky and seemed to form a shawl that slowly fell upon the glittering earth. The whole scene was brightly shining in the night, telling the world that Christmas time was near. Susan Hallett, Form Vb, Barclay House. MYSTERY AT MIDNIGHT THE LAST stroke of midnight boomed and slowly died away. All at once a low whistle sounded in an upper room of the grim, silent building. It was quickly answered by the shuffle of many moving feet. Swiftly the leader, who had whistled, was surrounded by a cluster of darkened forms. They all listened intently for a few minutes. With great care a large container was brought forward and rested noiselessly on the floor. Again they listened. The next operation was the most difficult and the most dangerous. A shudder ran round the group as they thought of the horrible possibilities if they were heard at this point. The leader, though realizing the heavy responsibility, cautiously bent to his task. Steadily but firmly, pressure was applied. Almost immediately the hiss of escaping gas could be heard. [27]

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around? Oh yes, bring one ski up on end, and put it down in the other direction. Then bring the other ski around, and you ' re turned. Who are they trying to kid ? ! But I tried it, and much to my amazement, it worked, so I was able to get my balance without sliding all over. Then we , all three of us, were off again. At one point I stopped, this time standing! The course ahead of me looked far too risky, so, using a bit more of my scant knowledge, I went down sideways. Yes, step by step, inch by inch, until I reached a spot where I could continue, going forward. The rest of the trail wasn ' t quite so mortifying: a few steep parts and more sharp corners. Then below me I could see the roof of the tow-hut. Civilization again! I felt so eager to get through this maze of trees and corners that I didn ' t care what came next, and let my skis follow the tracks already there. At last there was a wi de opening between the trees, and I flew right through it, and found myself going at a terrific speed down the last mighty hill of the trail. Of course every trail must have a happy ending, but with me it was more of a landing, and to top it all, beside the tow-hut. That was the last straw! Is that really the beginners ' trail? I asked the tow operator. Oh no. Miss, that ' s the trail for advanced skiers ! The sign must have been twisted by the wind last night. The beginners ' trail comes out over there, and he pointed to another opening in the trees. Someone get me a hot drink, I replied, I feel faint! Vivian Harland, Arts VI, Ross House. JAMAICA ON A MAP of the earth it ' s a dot — but to the natives of this island with the swaying coconut trees and sunny skies it is the beginning and end of the world. Their lives are centred around market-day. It is the event of the week. For days before, they come in from the country, some in buses, some on donkeys, and some even on foot, laden with baskets. At day-break on market-day, the singsong voices can be heard as they shout their wares: Water coconuts, fresh water coconuts or Some nice vegetables today, ma ' am? As the day gets hotter, the voices seem to rise, the crowds to thicken, the fruit and vegetable smells to increase, and the clinking of coins to become more frequent. Then, as suddenly as it began, it ends. As the afternoon comes, the crowds disperse. There is a lull in the voices. The barefoot children in their ragged clothes cease playing, and gather around their parents who are crouched beside their baskets in a deep sleep. Then, as if by magic, at night it begins all over again. If it was picturesque in the day, it is even more so at night. Now the kerosene lamps are lit, and with the moonlit sky for a roof the night marketing begins. Now, however, the voices are low, and the nervous movements of the donkeys can be heard. [26]

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The suspense that followed could be felt. Then someone uttered a sigh of relief. It was echoed by the rest. With willing hands the ginger ale bottle was passed around. The midnight feast in the senior dorm had begun. Lynne Schofield, Form Va, Barclay House. EXAMS Study! Study! Study! My light burns brightly on To try to avoid that last minute rush Before my thoughts are gone. Write! Write! Write! With paper, pen, and ink. Trying to write page after page When I cannot even think. Exams! Exams! Exams! Hear me while I wail! My parents say, Do what you can . And grumble when I fail! Judy Brow, Arts VI, Barclay House. YOU ' RE TELLING US! Getting out this magazine is fun, but it ' s no picnic, If we print jokes, people say we are silly; If we don ' t, they say we are too silly. If we clip things from other papers, we are too lazy to write them ourselves; If we don ' t, we are too fond of our own stuff. If we don ' t print contributions, we don ' t appreciate genius; If we do, the paper ' s full of junk. If we change other people ' s work, we are too critical; If we don ' t, we are asleep. Now as likely as not somebody will say we swiped this from another paper. We did. No apologies to the Juggler, Ball State, and the Crimson Comet. (B.C.S. Magazine and Unity News, Sydney, Australia, L.C.C. Magazine) [28]