Catholic High School For Girls - Silver Sands Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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knew it couldn't possibly be a Rem- brandt! But will wonders never cease! Dad actually beamed at Johnny, then turned to us and said, You two run along now and have a good time. When we got outside, Johnny smiled his sweet, toothless grin and THE 1951 SILVER SANDS said, What a character l Then I smiled back and replied, Yes, what a character l But what johnny didn't know was that Dad liked him a lot, a whole lot. How could he help liking someone who mistook one of his very own paintings for a Rembrandt! 'A' i' 'k OTHER AT ONE time resided in Atlantic City which is suitably called The Playground of the World. Some of us go there to take advantage of the health-giving air, but most visitors usually promenade the boardwalk Molina Wu fl Gai as part of a most enjoyable routine. One afternoon as Mother was doing just that, she noticed, as she approached New Jersey Avenue, that o crowd had gathered. As she went nearer, she could discern a handsomely dressed couple, each with a large Boxer dog on a leash. A photographer was trying to take a snapshot of them, probably for the rotogravure section of some magasine. He had difficulty in getting a picture because of the pulling and straining of the dogs on their leashes. The owner of the dogs, turning to a gentleman in the front of the crowd, asked, S ir, would you mind meowing like a cat! The gentleman gave a distainful look and walked away. In another attempt he turned to Mother asking, Miss, would you be obliging enough to meow like a catf' Mother was curious and obliging. Instantly the two Boxers became very alert and still, looking over in the direction from which the sound was coming. Thus the photographer secured a perfect picture. After the crowd had dispersed, Mother discovered that the owner of the beautiful dogs was none other than Francis X. Bushman, former matinee idol of the silent screen. Lonnnlun BELIN, '51 13

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THE 1951- SILVER SANDS CULTURE nys ff AD ALWAYS said, Everyone should have a hobby. And he was right, I suppose. Anyhow he thinks so. Dad is a great collector of artg in fact, our house is so full of art that I sometimes wonder why some of this so-called culture doesn't rub off on me. However, at present I am inter- ested in an altogether different hobby -very ditferent. This hobby answers to the name of Johnny. Noyv I wouldn't go so far as to say that Johnny is uncultured. I mean, after all, he is star halfback of the local football team. But, of course, Dad doesn't seem to think that playing football demands much in the way of artistic talent. Can you imagine any one's dreaming such a thing! Well, this is all leading up to the night that I was to have my first date with johnny. He just had to impress Dad. If only he didn't say anything, Dad wouldn't know that johnny was illiterate. fHe's not really-well, not exactly, but you know how football players are.J So, I thought if Johnny didn't talk at all, maybe Dad would think he was the quiet, intellectual type. On that memorable evening when the doorbell finally rang, I hurried to answer with a prayer in my heart. By Mary Ormsby, '52 Oh, johnny, please let Dad like you l I opened the door and there he stood. I smiledg he smiled back. Oh no! My hero lost a front tooth in that big game todayl Oh well, if he just keeps his mouth closed . . . I brought Johnny into the living- room to meet Dad. I thought to my- self, This is it I After the brief introduction, I heard Dad say to Johnny, How would you like to see a few of my prize paintings and draw- ings, son P I knew this opening line by heart, for Dad said it to every boy who called for me. Poor johnny! The only drawings he knew about were the usual rathes at school for the football team's uniforms. Nevertheless, Johnny, always the perfect gentleman, let Dad lead him into the study where the masterpieces were kept. Johnny, silently suffering through Dad's little explanation of each picture, really tried to look inter- ested anyhow. Then Dad turned sud- denly to a color creation that had a place of honor among the others and asked, Well, my boy, what do you think of this one? My dream man looked at the speci- fied painting and brilliantly replied, That's nice. It's a . . . a . . . R . . . Rembrandt, ain't it ? Oh no! What a blunder! Even I

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THE 1951 Sxnvan SANDS SHAIIRACK OES MY NOSE detect the delicate aroma of smoldering embers? Shall I fill my water pistol or call the fire department? N ol It's only Shadrack on one of his escapades again. What a toasterl I guess I should be more tolerant though, after all, Shadrack really dates back. Some stories have it that he was brought back from the Cru- sades by Richard the Lion-hearted- and that's quite a bit of lyin'. I can see him standing there. Plug in socket, he looks like a miniature Frankenstein laboratory. Nothing like his modest successors, he displays most of his instruments of torture visibly. His pet coil is one that burns a bu1l's eye right through the middle of the bread, after which he employs a decisive thig-a-ma-jig which liter- a.lly tars and feathers the upper crust. When he has finished damaging be- JI By Suzanne Mayor, '52 yond repair, he just sizzles back, lets off some steam, and gloats while everybody begins choking. From the time I was able to shove a piece of bread into his fiery, yviry claws, my encounters with Shadrack have been my daily early morning challenge. Nothing is more disgusting than to watch him annihilate Bond's best into a black board not even good for charcoal. Such a toasterl Yes, my friends, sigh your sigh of satisfaction when you see your toast popped onto a plate: sink your teeth into golden bronze. But you are de- nied opportunity for the conquest of mind over matter. You will never be able to lavish pent-up emotions on your breakfast table mechanism. Give me my Shadrack any day--something with enough tire to irritate me and enough natural stupidity to make me feel like master. That's a toasterl I like wind on winter nights, and The sound of rain on a summer even- ing. I like songs of birds flying high- 1 like living. MARY CONDON, '51