Victoria and Dow Hill Schools Poetry

THE POETRY

Victoria and Dow Hill Schools

It is incredible to come across poetry created by girls and boys, "Old Girls" and "Old Boys" and not forgetting the Staff, of these two schools.

If one has been there, then it is quite understandable.

To see Books written by old girls, boys or Staff Click Here.

Who could not be impressed with the beauty of the area? The forest, the flowers, the individual trees. Can you remember the walk up from the Staff houses below the bottom flat? The trees are still there and are magnificent. I tried to photograph the path, looking up, when we were there in 2001, but the time was wrong, late afternoon with the sun streaming in from low on the opposite hills. It created such contrasts. dark and light. But beautiful? Oh yes!

Enough of my ramblings....Lets get on to read the poetry.

Have you get any that you would like published? Send them in.

There was a time, there was a place,
A time of youth, a time of haste,
When what we had we didn't know
When passing moments seemed too slow.

We all grew up, so very fast
And now, when gone, we seek the past,
Those wonder years that slipped right by
Are simply visions of inner eye.

But feed we must off memory's plate,
And savour the fare, before too late,
Let us but nourish on all that was good,
The lightness, the laughter, the joys of childhood.

Sam Parry

We 'Thirties Girls', Must all recall, Mrs.Finney and her dorm..
Saturday a.m., Heads to wash, Is your brush dirty?

Oh! My gosh! Saturday p.m. The dhobie comes back, piles of mending, would fill a sack!

Those awful black stockings, Potatoes in heels, hours of darning, till your head reels.

Woe betide those who don’t get it done, so you're up at dawn, it's really no fun.

But bed time is lovely, for those who care, a bed time story, in Mrs. F.' lair.

After lights out, to the sharley we go,
Aloo sandwiches – shh ! keep your voices low.

Before you know it, there's the rising bell, we rush to get dressed, then the warning bell.

So it's down on your knees, prayers to be said,
and a 'passage' to read as you kneel by your bed

The breakfast bell gone, we're all standing in line, are your fingernails clean? And do your shoes shine?

We thought her a tartar, but cannot regret,
the training she gave us, we'll never forget.

Though all is so different in this world of today,
I'm glad I grew up in Mrs. Finney's way.

by Rusty Collins (Edie Berry)

First published_in "The Vic" in 1944:

AN OLD VICTORIAN LOOKS, BACK

I’ve wandered in the lowlands,
I have stumbled in the hills
On undiscovered beauty by surprise.
But the joy to me most pleasing,
Is the memory heart's easing,
Of Dow Hill's muggy, monsoon, wind-swept skies.

I have have wound my way to Saddle
Where breath-taking vistas vast
Can delight - or mists pack tightly round
Home by duck pond, bhutta snatching,
Or by 'Woodstock', beetle catching,
Then a mad rush grub-wards at the school bells' sound.

I have lost my pen and pencil
And my ink has swamped my desk;
I have torn out pages from my books galore.
Near the office I have waited,
I've been licked, lugged in, and gated,
But now I'd love to come back for some more.

You have surly rolled and stumbled
Down the spur to Castleton
Or have trekked up from Ambutia far below
Have you swum in Goethal's jhora?
Have you rode a bare-back ghora?
Such pleasures only V. S. chaps can know.

I have had my love accented,
I have carved my loved one's name.
I have asked for a dance with fainting heart.
I have known my future blighted,
I've been cut out, jilted, spited,
I've been cuffed - and that upset my apple cart.

I've surveyed the world from Sky Rock.
I've overfed at Picks,
Near Plague Rock, I have cut myself a cane.
Guarded o'er by leeches vicious
Mongail's raspberries delicious
I have often longed to over-eat again.

I have watched the red sun dying
Into cloud beyond the West,
And have shouted, "Going, going, going," as darkness fell.
I have admired the snows rose-tinted
Countless mornings when I've sprinted,
Training hard in hopes of doing well.

I have wandered in the lowlands,
But my heart is in the hills.
I've always lived in spirit "over there".
As a ghost I shall not falter,
Nor my wishes ever alter,
To lose myself forever in far Dow Hill's mountain air.

by Camby.

NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN

I often 'see' the place where I grew,
And spent my formative years,
Trained and taught by grown-ups I knew,
Together with all my peers.

I see again the folk I had known,
People I'll never forget,
Helping to make new boys feel at home,
Boys who remained in their debt.

I see Victoria, - perched on Dow Hill,
Set among cryptomarias,
Where in my eyes I am living still,
High in the Himalayas.

I see the great man, Pat O'Riordan,
The Head who did things in style,
Handing prizes to athletes who'd won,
With a firm shake and a smile.

I see old Griffiths, next to come
As Headmaster, strict and staid,
In 'solar topi', sun or no sun,
Take the salute on parade.

I see young Hessing, the next new Head,
With two huge Alsatian dogs,
Looking as tho' they'd never been fed,
Snapping at legs in short 'togs'.

I see 'Nobby' Clarke, moustached and tall,
With bark much worse than his bite,
Dealing with miscreants outside the hall
Scattering 'bods' left and right.

I see Mrs Clarke, with skill and grace,
Sketch an old 'Bhutia Lama',
Penc'ling in every crease on his face,
Holding his bowl of 'khana'.

I see Mr. Stayner, always stern,
For whom one had to be good,
As he could make a pupil's ears burn
As few other teachers could.

I see Mr. Baillie, lank and lean,
Reading a poem in class,
Then getting groups to act out a scene,
Which sometimes turned into a farce.

I see 'Nudge' Nugent, to boys who'd been
Out to the 'bog' for a chat,
Beckon each boy - this had to he seen,
"Now, come here, you bathroom rat !"

I see 'Puttoo' Price,with hockey stick,
Dribble the ball down the field;
Then with cadets the other schools lick
To retain the Baker Shield.

I see 'Chubby' Coombes, glass eye and all,
Field in the deep with great skill.
Underarm he could flick back the ball
And run out batsmen at will.

I see 'Verny' Prins, scratching 'you know'
(We boys called it Verny's itch),
Amusing us by having a go
Down on the school cricket pitch.

I see Padre Elliot, spruce and,neat,
Towering over a boy,
Cassocked in black right to his feet,
Ooozing with kindness and joy.

I see dear Munshi, in regal state,
Beneath his Bengali hat,
Ride up hill at a leisurely gait,
Straddling a poor 'Bhutia tat'

I see Daddy Lofts twirling his cane
And swishing it through the air,
But rarely raised it to cause any pain
To lads in Mrs. Lofts' care.

I see the Matron in hospital,
Busily doing her rounds,
In airy wards built over Dow Hill,
Standing in neatly kept grounds.

I see 'Daddy Ber’ trekking with scouts,
And plan the annual Sports Days;
Then organising keen boxing bouts
And well-drilled P.T. Displays.

I see 'Mummy Ber’ getting quite tough
When seniors, up in the dorm,
Made pillow fights a little too rough,
By quelling a feath'ry storm.

The family I knew in Kurseong,
Are often seen in my mind,
And though five decades have come and gone
Their breed are still hard to find.

by Edwin Berry.

Kurseang d.h.s.

Child of the Himalayas,

only behind closed eyelids now

can I return to sights and sounds that are a part of me

and no less vivid for so long an absence.

Kangchenjunga and her regal handmaids

a candyfloss confection

strawberry pink at sunrise and sundown.

Mists that swooped In vapourised glaciers

swirling us In cool saris of chiffon.

Forests of cryptomeria

primevalas padded treachery of Himalayan bear,

silent save for the hiss and prickle of needles underfoot.

Forever streams glissading

over knuckle smooth stones tight with Ice age secrets.

Waterfalls cascading milky white

to dark eyed pools fringed by green beards of streaming moss

Proud trees that carried In crooked arms

white nests of fragrant orchids.

And the honest incense of pearly woodsmoke

drifting through clearings

where straws of sunlight sipped the green dankness

from moss upholstered banks.

Those hot summer Sundays, lolling on hillsides,

under the prickly heat of navy serge,

watching the microcosmic life

scuttle chin level through Himalayan gentian

fragments of fallen sky pitting the grass.

Listening for chirruping cicadas,

incautious of the soft conspiracy of wind

bringing their shrill vibrations to our ear.

We tracked their song back to the camouflage of birch bark,

testing our skills against the sudden stricken silence

meeting our sneak approach. While they awaited

pop eyed and abdomen a quiver,

the faultless pounce the cupped hand of blind captivity.

Released,

we watched them whirr away

to freedoms we only dreamed of.

Denise Coelho (Fink)

Chimney - Kurseong

The relic stands tall despite dwarfing cryptomerias and,
with an air of devotion to duty, admits yet
no defeat by landslide
or the vacillating moods of men and the mountain.
Clings to the past and claims our instant attention.
This is the end for which our walking began.

Height shapes the world below. Palmate plain veined with a silver flood, largess of mountain thaw, blurs to a haze tremulous and blue.

Troops once used this early metalled road
cleaving the green silence upward to Jalapahar,
recruitment station for the Gurkha.
General Dow bequeathed his name to this height.

Coolies stop here to draw on an acrid biri
and swear that they still can hear the buck
of the blue eyed shaitans
within the bamboo grove where the bakehouse once stood.

I linger by haughty foxgloves, soft haired their nostrils flare to scent the upthrust of wind, (the untamed originals
of those far distant cousins grown docile in ordered, suburban gardens), and think of steaming billycans full of sweet Darjeeling tea and crusty new bread hot from the wood stoked ovens.

A toad blinks with solemn dignity
suffering
my unexpected footfall,
and crawls unhurried
to the shade of stagmoss and mountain violet.

Denise Coelho (Fink)

RETIREMENT

If you can hear the signs of day's awakening
And not jump out of bed as if in shock;
Then you have made the first adjustment
That cuts life's umbilicus to the clock.

If you can portion time for all your interests
Yet balance dues to family and friends,
Yours will be the feeling of contentment
And not the endless drive to make amends.

If you can view the change in your dominion
Without regret accept a lesser role;
You'll find consensus has it's merits
And humility is nectar for the soul.

If you adjust to changing circumstances
Yet shape events towards a mutual way,
Life's path runs smooth, and all those closest to you,
Will not regret the dawning of this day.

Owen Breese.
(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling.)

EVOCATION

Whilst in the Himalayas, some years ago,
I walked a rocky path through fragrant pines.
The raven’s harsh call bassed a bulbul’s flute.
A crinkled hillman, smiling, panted by, his back pressed down by basket heaped with wood: his calves straining at his trouser legs.
Butterflies tremored the air with rainbowed starts.

I turned downhill, almost at a run to take the grade, and braked in breathlessness against a tree - around a sudden curve.
And there, sprawled in feathered sunlight, lay an ancient hockey pitch; weed-veined, edged with firs and angled at one side by rock-walled banks; velvet-mossed and spattered with daisies, pink and white.

I stooped to pick a cone from off the ground and straightened up - to an unearthly quiet - a waiting stillness - Cracked! - by the click of a hockey ball against a stick, then rushing flaps of ankle-swirling skirts and tinkling voices,
“Good shot Harriet” “Oh, bad luck Maud” and calls of“Mona!” “Rose!” and “May!” and other half-forgotten names; peals of helpless laughter; each sound encapsuled in the crystal air; an entity that is and then is not.

I could almost believe myself to see them, Girls, sunk waist-deep in pools of navy serge, on grass;
Hair pinned up or tied behind with velvet and moire bows;
White shirtwaists, tucked and cameo-stuck jabots;
Reading Florence Barclay under needle-raining boughs;
The players faces, blushed by strokes of mountain air.
All happiness and joie de vivre was there, enveloped in that haunted spot - I had stumbled on my mother’s youth - and oh! I wished her there.
Then some exterior noise switched off the frame and all was as before;
A present and unpeopled patch of ground; a sagging netting at one end;
A canted goal-post, poignant with lost purpose, dragon-fly tipped.
The ravens croaked, the bulbuls sang
And I walked on downhill, stalked by nostalgia

Beth Le Page (nee Reay-Young)

1968

NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN by Eddy Berry 1921 - 1996

Kurseong is where I was born, and spent my first twelve years,
trained and taught by teachers now gone, with juniors who were my peers.
The school, Victoria, stands on Dow Hill, set among cryptomarias,
where all around the forest lies still below snow-capped Himalayas.
In my mind I see staff I'd known, people I'll never forget,
helping to make new boys feel at home, boys who remained in their debt.
There's the Irishman, Pat O'Riordan, the head who did things in style,
handing prizes to athletes who'd won, with a firm shake, and a smile.
Then old Griffiths, the next head to come, bespectacled, strict and staid,
in 'solar topi’, sun or no sun, take the salute on parade.
Next, young Hessing, the smart new head, with two huge Alsatian dogs,
bounding behind him, strong and well fed, snapping at boys in short 'togs'.
Then 'Nobby' Clarke, moustache & all, with bark much worse than his bite,
dealing with miscreants outside the hall, scattering 'bods' left and right.

His wife, Mrs Clarke, with skill and grace, sketches a 'butia lama',
pencilling in each crease on his face, as he holds his bowl of 'khana'.
Beckons 'Nudge' Nugent, to boys who'd been out to the 'bog' for a chat
(All Old boys can picture the scene) "Come here you bathroom rat".
'Puttoo' Price wields his hockey stick dribbling the ball down the field,
then, with cadets, the other schools 'lick', to retain the Baker Shield.
I see 'Verny' Prins, scratching 'you know', called by us boys 'verny's itch',
leading the scouts in their annual show, performing without a hitch.
Spruce Padre Elliott, lank and neat, towering over a boy,
cassocked in black right down to his feet, oozing kindness and joy.
Then dear ‘Munshi’, in regal state, beneath his Bengali hat,
riding up hill at a leisurely gait, straddling a poor 'bhutia tat'.

I hear 'Daddy' Lofts swishing his cane, and twirling it through the air
(But was it used to cause any pain to boys in Mrs Loft's care?).
The starchy Matron in hospital busily does her rounds
in airy wards built on Dow Hill, behind the neatly kept grounds.
There's my father, trekking with scouts, and planning the annual Sports Day,
then organizing keen boxing bouts, and well-drilled P.T.display.
Lastly, my mother, getting quite tough when quelling a feathery storm,
as pillow fights get a little too rough between seniors in her 'dorm'.
All these-and others-in Kurseong are often seen in my mind,
and though several years have come and gone, their breed is still hard to find.

Apart from the staff, what else can I say about my time on the hill?
where I spent happy hours each day, and where I'd like to be still?
Various games were held on 'top flat', 'goolie dunda' I enjoyed;
It trained the eyes when you went in to bat, as good timing must be employed.
Playing 'tops' and marbles I never tired, and 'cig' cards which one would flick;
then butterfly chasing with a net wired on to a long bamboo stick.
Skills of hockey were learnt, I recall, with sticks that weren't too grand,
and then bent double we dribbled the ball with our 'toothpick' in one hand.
The local bazaar below in the town was generally out of bounds,
but sometimes we were allowed to go down to watch games in other schools grounds.
The town has a 'flea-pit' where silent 'pies' WERE SEEN BY US TWICE A YEAR:
"Rin Tin Tin" in the memory sticks, and stone seats for our rear.

On returning, the 'syce' held the reins of a half-starved 'bhutia tat',
led so leisurely past bamboo canes, as on it I gingerly sat.
Sometimes a 'dandy' with sedan chair, supported each end with poles,
resting on shoulders of four men in pairs, as comfy as posh people's Rolls.
We had a 'Toy Train' (so called as it’s small) which chug-chugged up from the plains,
when, sometimes on steep gradients it stalls, unlike the big Indian trains.
So pupils arrive, and then leave at year’s end, on the train reserved for the boys,
glad to go home to family and friends to celebrate Christmas with joy.
Calcutta is home to most of them, and on March the first again,
they return with new boys now and then, upon the reserved 'Toy Train'.

The school had servants who served us well; some Indian, some Nepalese;
some whose backgrounds were hard to tell, but all did their best to please.
There's the 'dhurzi' with needle and thread, sat by a Singer he sews,
or sat in the 'dorm' by someone's bed, mending torn sheets as he goes.
I watch the 'dhobi' bashing away in water up his knees;
then steam ironing, day after day, handling both tasks with ease.
I sit by the armoury 'chowkidhar', sprucing up kit for a show,
then clean Enfield rifles with oil from a jar, and stacking them back in a row.
We watch for the 'dak-wallah’, reins in hand, come round the bend in the road,
with mail from, by sea or by land, with a pony bearing his load.
The 'munshi' is there mending a shoe, skilful on leather and last;
fixing heels with his smelly glue, which stinks as we walk past.
Lastly, the bearers, sweepers and cooks with 'roti' and 'dudh wallah’, too.
Boys stealing cakes when nobody looks so 'cake wallah' loses a few.
From time to time I sit back and 'see' where I spent my formative years,
and where for always my thoughts will be the place of laughter and tears.

Picture taken in 1929 at Victoria School of Sports Master and Matron Mr and Mrs Berry with their family.

Back row - Elizabeth, Fred, Fred Jnr, Ethel Jnr.

Middle - Nancy, Ethel, Edwin.

Front - Edith, Kathleen, Isobel and unknown dog!.

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	THE POETRY of Victoria and Dow Hill Schools

	It is incredible to come across poetry created by girls and boys, "Old Girls" and "Old Boys" and not forgetting the Staff, of these two schools. If one has been there, then it is quite understandable. To see Books written by old girls, boys or Staff Click Here. Who could not be impressed with the beauty of the area? The forest, the flowers, the individual trees. Can you remember the walk up from the Staff houses below the bottom flat? The trees are still there and are magnificent. I tried to photograph the path, looking up, when we were there in 2001, but the time was wrong, late afternoon with the sun streaming in from low on the opposite hills. It created such contrasts. dark and light. But beautiful? Oh yes! Enough of my ramblings....Lets get on to read the poetry. Have you get any that you would like published? Send them in.

	There was a time, there was a place, A time of youth, a time of haste, When what we had we didn't know When passing moments seemed too slow. We all grew up, so very fast And now, when gone, we seek the past, Those wonder years that slipped right by Are simply visions of inner eye. But feed we must off memory's plate, And savour the fare, before too late, Let us but nourish on all that was good, The lightness, the laughter, the joys of childhood. Sam Parry

	We 'Thirties Girls', Must all recall, Mrs.Finney and her dorm.. Saturday a.m., Heads to wash, Is your brush dirty? Oh! My gosh! Saturday p.m. The dhobie comes back, piles of mending, would fill a sack! Those awful black stockings, Potatoes in heels, hours of darning, till your head reels. Woe betide those who don’t get it done, so you're up at dawn, it's really no fun. But bed time is lovely, for those who care, a bed time story, in Mrs. F.' lair. After lights out, to the sharley we go, Aloo sandwiches – shh ! keep your voices low. Before you know it, there's the rising bell, we rush to get dressed, then the warning bell. So it's down on your knees, prayers to be said, and a 'passage' to read as you kneel by your bed The breakfast bell gone, we're all standing in line, are your fingernails clean? And do your shoes shine? We thought her a tartar, but cannot regret, the training she gave us, we'll never forget. Though all is so different in this world of today, I'm glad I grew up in Mrs. Finney's way. by Rusty Collins (Edie Berry)
	First published_in "The Vic" in 1944: AN OLD VICTORIAN LOOKS, BACK I’ve wandered in the lowlands, I have stumbled in the hills On undiscovered beauty by surprise. But the joy to me most pleasing, Is the memory heart's easing, Of Dow Hill's muggy, monsoon, wind-swept skies. I have have wound my way to Saddle Where breath-taking vistas vast Can delight - or mists pack tightly round Home by duck pond, bhutta snatching, Or by 'Woodstock', beetle catching, Then a mad rush grub-wards at the school bells' sound. I have lost my pen and pencil And my ink has swamped my desk; I have torn out pages from my books galore. Near the office I have waited, I've been licked, lugged in, and gated, But now I'd love to come back for some more. You have surly rolled and stumbled Down the spur to Castleton Or have trekked up from Ambutia far below Have you swum in Goethal's jhora? Have you rode a bare-back ghora? Such pleasures only V. S. chaps can know. I have had my love accented, I have carved my loved one's name. I have asked for a dance with fainting heart. I have known my future blighted, I've been cut out, jilted, spited, I've been cuffed - and that upset my apple cart. I've surveyed the world from Sky Rock. I've overfed at Picks, Near Plague Rock, I have cut myself a cane. Guarded o'er by leeches vicious Mongail's raspberries delicious I have often longed to over-eat again. I have watched the red sun dying Into cloud beyond the West, And have shouted, "Going, going, going," as darkness fell. I have admired the snows rose-tinted Countless mornings when I've sprinted, Training hard in hopes of doing well. I have wandered in the lowlands, But my heart is in the hills. I've always lived in spirit "over there". As a ghost I shall not falter, Nor my wishes ever alter, To lose myself forever in far Dow Hill's mountain air. by Camby.

	NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN I often 'see' the place where I grew, And spent my formative years, Trained and taught by grown-ups I knew, Together with all my peers. I see again the folk I had known, People I'll never forget, Helping to make new boys feel at home, Boys who remained in their debt. I see Victoria, - perched on Dow Hill, Set among cryptomarias, Where in my eyes I am living still, High in the Himalayas. I see the great man, Pat O'Riordan, The Head who did things in style, Handing prizes to athletes who'd won, With a firm shake and a smile. I see old Griffiths, next to come As Headmaster, strict and staid, In 'solar topi', sun or no sun, Take the salute on parade. I see young Hessing, the next new Head, With two huge Alsatian dogs, Looking as tho' they'd never been fed, Snapping at legs in short 'togs'. I see 'Nobby' Clarke, moustached and tall, With bark much worse than his bite, Dealing with miscreants outside the hall Scattering 'bods' left and right. I see Mrs Clarke, with skill and grace, Sketch an old 'Bhutia Lama', Penc'ling in every crease on his face, Holding his bowl of 'khana'. I see Mr. Stayner, always stern, For whom one had to be good, As he could make a pupil's ears burn As few other teachers could. I see Mr. Baillie, lank and lean, Reading a poem in class, Then getting groups to act out a scene, Which sometimes turned into a farce. I see 'Nudge' Nugent, to boys who'd been Out to the 'bog' for a chat, Beckon each boy - this had to he seen, "Now, come here, you bathroom rat !" I see 'Puttoo' Price,with hockey stick, Dribble the ball down the field; Then with cadets the other schools lick To retain the Baker Shield. I see 'Chubby' Coombes, glass eye and all, Field in the deep with great skill. Underarm he could flick back the ball And run out batsmen at will. I see 'Verny' Prins, scratching 'you know' (We boys called it Verny's itch), Amusing us by having a go Down on the school cricket pitch. I see Padre Elliot, spruce and,neat, Towering over a boy, Cassocked in black right to his feet, Ooozing with kindness and joy. I see dear Munshi, in regal state, Beneath his Bengali hat, Ride up hill at a leisurely gait, Straddling a poor 'Bhutia tat' I see Daddy Lofts twirling his cane And swishing it through the air, But rarely raised it to cause any pain To lads in Mrs. Lofts' care. I see the Matron in hospital, Busily doing her rounds, In airy wards built over Dow Hill, Standing in neatly kept grounds. I see 'Daddy Ber’ trekking with scouts, And plan the annual Sports Days; Then organising keen boxing bouts And well-drilled P.T. Displays. I see 'Mummy Ber’ getting quite tough When seniors, up in the dorm, Made pillow fights a little too rough, By quelling a feath'ry storm. The family I knew in Kurseong, Are often seen in my mind, And though five decades have come and gone Their breed are still hard to find. by Edwin Berry.

	Kurseang d.h.s. Child of the Himalayas, only behind closed eyelids now can I return to sights and sounds that are a part of me and no less vivid for so long an absence. Kangchenjunga and her regal handmaids a candyfloss confection strawberry pink at sunrise and sundown. Mists that swooped In vapourised glaciers swirling us In cool saris of chiffon. Forests of cryptomeria primevalas padded treachery of Himalayan bear, silent save for the hiss and prickle of needles underfoot. Forever streams glissading over knuckle smooth stones tight with Ice age secrets. Waterfalls cascading milky white to dark eyed pools fringed by green beards of streaming moss Proud trees that carried In crooked arms white nests of fragrant orchids. And the honest incense of pearly woodsmoke drifting through clearings where straws of sunlight sipped the green dankness from moss upholstered banks. Those hot summer Sundays, lolling on hillsides, under the prickly heat of navy serge, watching the microcosmic life scuttle chin level through Himalayan gentian fragments of fallen sky pitting the grass. Listening for chirruping cicadas, incautious of the soft conspiracy of wind bringing their shrill vibrations to our ear. We tracked their song back to the camouflage of birch bark, testing our skills against the sudden stricken silence meeting our sneak approach. While they awaited pop eyed and abdomen a quiver, the faultless pounce the cupped hand of blind captivity. Released, we watched them whirr away to freedoms we only dreamed of. Denise Coelho (Fink)

	Chimney - Kurseong The relic stands tall despite dwarfing cryptomerias and, with an air of devotion to duty, admits yet no defeat by landslide or the vacillating moods of men and the mountain. Clings to the past and claims our instant attention. This is the end for which our walking began. Height shapes the world below. Palmate plain veined with a silver flood, largess of mountain thaw, blurs to a haze tremulous and blue. Troops once used this early metalled road cleaving the green silence upward to Jalapahar, recruitment station for the Gurkha. General Dow bequeathed his name to this height. Coolies stop here to draw on an acrid biri and swear that they still can hear the buck of the blue eyed shaitans within the bamboo grove where the bakehouse once stood. I linger by haughty foxgloves, soft haired their nostrils flare to scent the upthrust of wind, (the untamed originals of those far distant cousins grown docile in ordered, suburban gardens), and think of steaming billycans full of sweet Darjeeling tea and crusty new bread hot from the wood stoked ovens. A toad blinks with solemn dignity suffering my unexpected footfall, and crawls unhurried to the shade of stagmoss and mountain violet. Denise Coelho (Fink)

	RETIREMENT If you can hear the signs of day's awakening And not jump out of bed as if in shock; Then you have made the first adjustment That cuts life's umbilicus to the clock. If you can portion time for all your interests Yet balance dues to family and friends, Yours will be the feeling of contentment And not the endless drive to make amends. If you can view the change in your dominion Without regret accept a lesser role; You'll find consensus has it's merits And humility is nectar for the soul. If you adjust to changing circumstances Yet shape events towards a mutual way, Life's path runs smooth, and all those closest to you, Will not regret the dawning of this day. Owen Breese. (With apologies to Rudyard Kipling.)

	EVOCATION Whilst in the Himalayas, some years ago, I walked a rocky path through fragrant pines. The raven’s harsh call bassed a bulbul’s flute. A crinkled hillman, smiling, panted by, his back pressed down by basket heaped with wood: his calves straining at his trouser legs. Butterflies tremored the air with rainbowed starts. I turned downhill, almost at a run to take the grade, and braked in breathlessness against a tree - around a sudden curve. And there, sprawled in feathered sunlight, lay an ancient hockey pitch; weed-veined, edged with firs and angled at one side by rock-walled banks; velvet-mossed and spattered with daisies, pink and white. I stooped to pick a cone from off the ground and straightened up - to an unearthly quiet - a waiting stillness - Cracked! - by the click of a hockey ball against a stick, then rushing flaps of ankle-swirling skirts and tinkling voices, “Good shot Harriet” “Oh, bad luck Maud” and calls of“Mona!” “Rose!” and “May!” and other half-forgotten names; peals of helpless laughter; each sound encapsuled in the crystal air; an entity that is and then is not. I could almost believe myself to see them, Girls, sunk waist-deep in pools of navy serge, on grass; Hair pinned up or tied behind with velvet and moire bows; White shirtwaists, tucked and cameo-stuck jabots; Reading Florence Barclay under needle-raining boughs; The players faces, blushed by strokes of mountain air. All happiness and joie de vivre was there, enveloped in that haunted spot - I had stumbled on my mother’s youth - and oh! I wished her there. Then some exterior noise switched off the frame and all was as before; A present and unpeopled patch of ground; a sagging netting at one end; A canted goal-post, poignant with lost purpose, dragon-fly tipped. The ravens croaked, the bulbuls sang And I walked on downhill, stalked by nostalgia Beth Le Page (nee Reay-Young) 1968

	NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN by Eddy Berry 1921 - 1996 Kurseong is where I was born, and spent my first twelve years, trained and taught by teachers now gone, with juniors who were my peers. The school, Victoria, stands on Dow Hill, set among cryptomarias, where all around the forest lies still below snow-capped Himalayas. In my mind I see staff I'd known, people I'll never forget, helping to make new boys feel at home, boys who remained in their debt. There's the Irishman, Pat O'Riordan, the head who did things in style, handing prizes to athletes who'd won, with a firm shake, and a smile. Then old Griffiths, the next head to come, bespectacled, strict and staid, in 'solar topi’, sun or no sun, take the salute on parade. Next, young Hessing, the smart new head, with two huge Alsatian dogs, bounding behind him, strong and well fed, snapping at boys in short 'togs'. Then 'Nobby' Clarke, moustache & all, with bark much worse than his bite, dealing with miscreants outside the hall, scattering 'bods' left and right. His wife, Mrs Clarke, with skill and grace, sketches a 'butia lama', pencilling in each crease on his face, as he holds his bowl of 'khana'. Beckons 'Nudge' Nugent, to boys who'd been out to the 'bog' for a chat (All Old boys can picture the scene) "Come here you bathroom rat". 'Puttoo' Price wields his hockey stick dribbling the ball down the field, then, with cadets, the other schools 'lick', to retain the Baker Shield. I see 'Verny' Prins, scratching 'you know', called by us boys 'verny's itch', leading the scouts in their annual show, performing without a hitch. Spruce Padre Elliott, lank and neat, towering over a boy, cassocked in black right down to his feet, oozing kindness and joy. Then dear ‘Munshi’, in regal state, beneath his Bengali hat, riding up hill at a leisurely gait, straddling a poor 'bhutia tat'. I hear 'Daddy' Lofts swishing his cane, and twirling it through the air (But was it used to cause any pain to boys in Mrs Loft's care?). The starchy Matron in hospital busily does her rounds in airy wards built on Dow Hill, behind the neatly kept grounds. There's my father, trekking with scouts, and planning the annual Sports Day, then organizing keen boxing bouts, and well-drilled P.T.display. Lastly, my mother, getting quite tough when quelling a feathery storm, as pillow fights get a little too rough between seniors in her 'dorm'. All these-and others-in Kurseong are often seen in my mind, and though several years have come and gone, their breed is still hard to find. Apart from the staff, what else can I say about my time on the hill? where I spent happy hours each day, and where I'd like to be still? Various games were held on 'top flat', 'goolie dunda' I enjoyed; It trained the eyes when you went in to bat, as good timing must be employed. Playing 'tops' and marbles I never tired, and 'cig' cards which one would flick; then butterfly chasing with a net wired on to a long bamboo stick. Skills of hockey were learnt, I recall, with sticks that weren't too grand, and then bent double we dribbled the ball with our 'toothpick' in one hand. The local bazaar below in the town was generally out of bounds, but sometimes we were allowed to go down to watch games in other schools grounds. The town has a 'flea-pit' where silent 'pies' WERE SEEN BY US TWICE A YEAR: "Rin Tin Tin" in the memory sticks, and stone seats for our rear. On returning, the 'syce' held the reins of a half-starved 'bhutia tat', led so leisurely past bamboo canes, as on it I gingerly sat. Sometimes a 'dandy' with sedan chair, supported each end with poles, resting on shoulders of four men in pairs, as comfy as posh people's Rolls. We had a 'Toy Train' (so called as it’s small) which chug-chugged up from the plains, when, sometimes on steep gradients it stalls, unlike the big Indian trains. So pupils arrive, and then leave at year’s end, on the train reserved for the boys, glad to go home to family and friends to celebrate Christmas with joy. Calcutta is home to most of them, and on March the first again, they return with new boys now and then, upon the reserved 'Toy Train'. The school had servants who served us well; some Indian, some Nepalese; some whose backgrounds were hard to tell, but all did their best to please. There's the 'dhurzi' with needle and thread, sat by a Singer he sews, or sat in the 'dorm' by someone's bed, mending torn sheets as he goes. I watch the 'dhobi' bashing away in water up his knees; then steam ironing, day after day, handling both tasks with ease. I sit by the armoury 'chowkidhar', sprucing up kit for a show, then clean Enfield rifles with oil from a jar, and stacking them back in a row. We watch for the 'dak-wallah’, reins in hand, come round the bend in the road, with mail from, by sea or by land, with a pony bearing his load. The 'munshi' is there mending a shoe, skilful on leather and last; fixing heels with his smelly glue, which stinks as we walk past. Lastly, the bearers, sweepers and cooks with 'roti' and 'dudh wallah’, too. Boys stealing cakes when nobody looks so 'cake wallah' loses a few. From time to time I sit back and 'see' where I spent my formative years, and where for always my thoughts will be the place of laughter and tears.
	Picture taken in 1929 at Victoria School of Sports Master and Matron Mr and Mrs Berry with their family. Back row - Elizabeth, Fred, Fred Jnr, Ethel Jnr. Middle - Nancy, Ethel, Edwin. Front - Edith, Kathleen, Isobel and unknown dog!.

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