Ninety-five : a calendar for the year MDCCCXCV; with some selections from Canadian writers and drawings by members of the Toronto Art Students' League

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in 2010 with funding from

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DESIGNED AND PVBLlihED BY THE TOl^ONTO Am
5TVDENTr lEAGUr 73 ADEl AIDfJTDEET E. TOl^ONTO

CANADA

T

HE dry
dead leaves

flit b_y
with their

weird tunes,

Like

failing'
murnuirs
of some
conquered creed,

Graven
in
mystic markings
with

strange runes,
That none but stars

and

biting winds

may read.

A. Lampman

Coal miners ^ox^a scon a

N reawakened courses

The brooks rejoiced the land ;
We dreamed the Spring's sliy forces

Were gathering close at hand.
The dripping buds were stirred,

As if the sap had heard
The long desired persuasion
Of April's soft command.

Chas. G. D. Roberts

To-night

the west o'erbrims
with warmest dyes,
Its chalice overtlows
with pools

of purple
coloring the skies,
A flood with gold and rose,
And some hot soul
seems throbbing
close to mine.
As sinks the sun
within
that world of wine.

I seem to hear

a bar of music float.
And swoon into the west.
My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note,

But something in my breast
Blends with that strain, till both accord in one,
As cloud and color blend at set of sun.

E Pauline Johnson

P-/

Quebec! how regally it crowns the height
Like a tanned giant on a solid throne.

Charles Sangster.

s

ING me a song" of the toiling bees,

Of the long flight and the honey won,

Of the white liives under the apple trees
in the hazy sun.

Sing me a song of the thyme and the sage,
Of sweet marjoram in the garden grey,

Where goes my love Armitage
Pulling the summer savory.

Duncan Campbell Scott

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Bright were the scenes that fancy drew,
And blithe the hours that gaily tlew,
In life's gay morn, when all was new.

Charles Hhavysege

' 1^ IS time for vagabonds to make

The nearest inn. Far on I hear
The voices of the Northern hills
Gather the vagrants of the year.

Bliss Carman

I HEN a lig'ht cloud rose up for hardihood,

Trailing a veil of snow that whirled and broke,
Blown softly like a shroud of steam or smoke,

Sallied across a knoll where maples stood.

Charged over broken country for a rood.

Then seeing the night withdrew his force and fled,
Leaving the ground with snowflakes thinly spread,

And traces of the skirmish in the wood.

Duncan Campbell Scott

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From the far-off mighty rivers,
Drifting, shifting, glad-life givers,

Throbbing, pulsing, to the lakes ;
From the far-off, blue-peaked mountains,
From the forest-girdled fountains,

Where the sunlight leaps and shakes ;
From the spaces wild and dreary,
From the cornlands far and near.
Comes the Atitumn's miserere,
Comes the death -song of the vear.

W. W. Campbell

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