Burlington High School - Rarebits Yearbook (Burlington, Ontario Canada)

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RAREBITS 31 That word 'tidy' you must have found in an awfully old dictionary. Here Tom Segal entered, and his puzzzlement changed to stage fright when he found out what he was to do. Finally, he started to talk, and he got Robert Knowles' interest, too. An hour later Tom left with a dazed look in his eyes. Then Iane and Robert Knowles went out to dinner together. Next day lane told Mr. Wetherby what had happened. Paul Wetherby's mouth opened in uncon- trolled amazement. Then: Segal isn't the man to handle this. You should have waited until my return. Then he pushed buttons, and flung orders at the people who answered the signals. Persons stopping at Iane's desk asked. Did you hear that Mr. Yvetherby landed the big Radio contract? Iane's mouth tightened ominously, Mr. Xvetherby indeed! Somehow she found it less thrilling to work after that rainy April day. Paul Wetherby was conscious of the change. He felt her looking at him when he was making a big impression and it made him uncomfortable. He felt particularly so when he told her he had given the Radio Contract to some other copyright to do. She said: Mr. Knowles was interested in Segal's plans. He decided to put her in her place. lt's not a question of plans but of talent. It was very unwise of you to attempt to handle this Contract. lane was silent. She met Segal in the eleva- tor. He looked very much discouraged and told her that he had all the plans finished, but Wetherby wouldn't look at them. lane told him to bring them to hergsomething might hap- pen. Something did happen a week later. Robert Knowles turned down flat the plans that Wether- by had prepared. Then, the next morning, Miss Klien one of the typists got into Wether- by's office before lane could stop her. She heard her say something, then Wetherby said: I have been think of making a change. Miss Brown is a good worker, but- lan-e didn't hear anymore. She carried on her work in a sort of frozen daze. Alone in her room that night she had another fight with herself. This time the French side won out. She went to the office, did a bit of work, then left a note saying Shopping Back later. About four hours later a bewildered ofiice boy announced to Mr. Knowles that the girl who carried an umbrella would like to see him. Suddenly Robert Knowles chuckled, Show her in, he said. She came in, and he made a queer noise in his throat. The girl who stood before him was Spring. The corners of her wide eyes, the corners of her isweet mouth, the curling ends of her short hair the flare of her brief sport skirt-everything about her quirked up, happily. .'Al've brought something to show you, she sai . She first drawing caught his interest, and he sax : Why wasn't l shown these before? These are Segal's copies. Vtletherby took the job away from him, but I saw his work, and thought you would like it. Well, suppose we call it a go, then, he said. Returning to the office she almost stumbled over Wetherby hunting through the files. Welll he said, what's the big idea of a morning off? Don't you think it was worth itrfu she asked. He gasped. I'll say it was, he told her, and grinned. NVhile I was out, I persuaded Mr. Knowles to give us the contract, after all. You persuaded him! On condition that you use these copies. He studied the work, then: Who did these? lane looked him in the eye, and said: Tom Segal. He retired to his office, but took Segal's plans along. lane smiled. She looked at her desk calendar, Friday, the thirteenth. Tomorrow, she was going to dine with Robert Knowles. How glorious to have plenty of tomorrow's coming! For lane, you see, no longer raised the um- brella of caution against Fate. Qbur Ginwn ' By IEAN COUTTS Burlington Heights- Twinkling lights, Awink across the lake, ln sheltering arm Free from harm Of Ontario's thundering break. Quiet town- In Autumn brown- Seems to dwell in summer, Cool and peaceful, Staid and graceful YVelcomes each newcomer. Homey place- With a quiet grace- Progressive though not booming Among our people, 'Neath each steeple Kindness is always blooming.

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50 R A R E B I T S She ilinzea 1-Im' mhrella By KATHERINE GASH, CCommercialj lane made a perfect private secretary. Like her name, Iane Brown, she was plain, serviceable, neat and undistinguished. She wore clothes that suited her, that always followed the mode, but very discreetly. Iane had not been born plain, but she achieved this effect by large, shell-rimmed spectacles and a very unbecoming coiffure. Paul XVetherby, her employer, asked for nothing better than lane. He would cross his fingers and mutter to himself Gosh, but she's good! He never told anyone this, because it may have subtracted a bit from his glory. Paul you see, was a go-getternand junior member of the old, conservative firm of Kane and Wether- by, Advertisers. The company was dying of dry rot when I breezed in, he would say to his cronies, but I've put new life into it. New ideas, pep, up-to- date approachf' He moved snappily from con- ference to conference, always 'ton his toes , as he phrased it. Always a picture of what the well dressed man wears, he caused many skipped heart-beats among the girls. Chiefly they were enraptured by his good looks-quick grey eyes, tanned skin, lean fitness and his perfect groom- ing. 'He was a modern hero! Here was Iane's one defect. There was some- thing lacking in her polite attention when Paul would interrupt her work to tell her of a new plan. She failed to be properly impressed, or something hard to defineybut he felt it. It was well that she had much work to occupy her time. For lane did not make friends easily, and, save for her work, her three years in New York had been quite empty. At the boarding-house the girls drifted off after dinner with young men, and, at the office, if she approached a whispering group of girls, they separated, and asked tentatively: Did you want something, Miss Brown? It gave her a shut-out feeling, and it hurt- Nobody suspected that it hurt, and they thought Iane's shyness was coldness. The real trouble was that she was a battle- field. Inside her small person, Gallic fire and love of beauty inherited from her French mother fought iron control and distrust of anything beautiful, inherited from her New England father. Her mother had died when she was a babyg consequently her father's ideas dominated. 'She had a picture of her mother and three beautiful trinkets she dared not wear. It would seem that the Puritan side had won the victory until that day, that rainy day in April. lane was working in her office which guarded the entrance to Paul XVetherby's impressive rooms. He was not there, because he was staying at Long Island for the week-end. It was a wet, dirty day, and only routine appoint- ments were scheduled. so he had been sure lane could handle them. Iane's mouth tightened at the implication. So lane sat alone, working. She was so busy that she didn't notice a drip-drip-drip on her rug, until a throat was cleared and a pleasant masculine voice inquired: Is there some other place you'd rather I'd drip? This looks like an expensive rug. Looking up, startled, lane beheld the wettesf object she had ever seen. Every Puritan in- stinct she possessed had a voice in her exclama- tion: Oh, dear, my rug. Yes, darling, but where am I to stand? The room is so small and the rug so big there is no space left, answered the wet object. lane flushed, whisked a paper out of her desk, put it on part of the rug, and asked him to stand there. Quite so, agreed her visitor, and shook him- self like a great shaggy dog. However did you get so wet?U she asked. Well, I was sure I saw enough blue between the clouds to make a pair of sailor's pants, and that means it won't rain anymore. Superstition, sniffed lane, you got pretty wet following it. Didn't I though? he agreed. And of course you had no umbrella, she thought aloud. Why the 'of course', sister? he asked. You wouldn't carry an umbrella. I'm sure,', Iane said. Thank you, he said feelingly. But what for? lane asked. For telling me I'm such a courageous soul. You see, the umbrella is the symbol of caution. Now, I very much fear, you are an umbrella carrier. Iane's eyes turned to the corner where her hat, coat, and umbrella were neatly hung. The man's eyes followed hers. Ah, yes, he sighed. Iane came back to earth, Is there anything I can do for you? I came to your hospitable office -he glanced at the damp paper on which he stood- to see Mr. Wetherby with regard to a contract. Mr. Wetherby is out of the city, but I am his secretary. Possibly I can be of some assistance? I'm sure you can tell me what I want to know, as well or better than Mr. Wetherby, he said, shrewdly. I am Robert Knowles of the Radio Corporation, he introduced himself. lane supressed a gasp. Robert Knowles of the great Radio Corporation! If Kane and Wetherby could get the radio account, it would be the biggest job they had had in many days. Her knees felt wobbly. Then she remembered Tom Se al, a young copy writer on their staff, who hacf shown her some of his work, and she knew it was good. He could map out an adver- tising campaign that would be a winner. She pushed a button, and told the office boy who answered the call to bring Mr. Segal to her. Then she realized that Robert Knowles was still standing on a newspaper. Oh, please, won't you sit down? she asked in a very small voice. Why the change of heart, sisteru Ifm as wet when I'm Robert Knowles as when I'm nobody. He was accusing her of snobbery, and she knew it was true. But something was happening to lane, so she cocked her head, and said: You are not nearly so wet now as you were, she said. Please step off the paper, and bundle itdinto the wastebasket, so my office can be ti y'

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52 RAREBITS Gbut nf 7 hen By RETA SWARTZ V. I did not know VVhat was to be Until the dear, glad smile ofyou Began the thing. . . High above the avenue of tall, bare trees, the full moon was rising. A VVind slithered up the empty street and, before a gayly lighted house, paused. Inside were music and bright figures dancing, in a pattern ever-shifting yet oddly always the same. Children playing at Lifel Little knew they of the strange passions, supreme anguish and awful joy that lie at the root of being. They looked upon the moon and called it pretty, the moon that is a haunted thing-a spectre with a warning of death. The Xvind threw the black branches fantasti- cally against the silver, throwing into relief the romance of its nakedness. And laughed in her knowledge of all things. VVhen she stirred back, framed in the doorway with the brightness be- yond silhouetting their hgures stood two of the crowd. Together they were quietly looking up at the tossing artistry, an artistry that told, in one bold, beautiful gesture, the secret of all that has been, is and ever will be. But they did not know. Down the steps into the white world that was waiting for them they went. A moment's hesitation at the old, moon-washed lattice gate, then the taller one opened it for her and they passed on-into the Garden. . . . and then I only knew A star hung low And winds were calling. Ah! The Wind has seen dark Egyptians woo the daughters of their native land, has watched the secret trysts of 01d Iapang has sung the im- mortal song to other lovers in the warm, lush nights as of Indiag has raged about the Sphinx but has left her as it found her-Woman Eternal. But now- A few moments on the dim, white court with the lights of a city over the bay. . . The sweet, old scent of dew-drenched roses drifting up in the fragrance of the night. . . the low surge of music coming to them like the regular wash of waves on some far Elysian shore. . . wind fingers over an oval face with its shadowed lids and softly parted lips. . . wind fingers through dark, tumbled hair. . . Shadows tremble. And the Dawn Seeps in. No matter now VVhat was 1 Or might have been. For now we know the language of the Vllind as nightly she writhes and twists the tallest treetops that almost, but never quite, touch the skyg or, uncoiled and breathless, she slips over the grass, fleeing from herself like a driven thing, in that strange, pregnant hour before the break- ing of dawn. l ORCHESTRA Left to right-Standing-Russell Vickers, Iames Sinclair, Andy Hyslop, Paul Christianson, Ierome King. Sitting-Edith Spence, lean Hyslop, Hannah Shakespeare, Donald Stadelman, Dorothy Biggs.