Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

Page 21 text:

THE REFLECTOR women folks would make little delicacies and bring them to her fresh from the oven or pan. The social life was delightful, but financial con- ditions depressing. One afternoon a car drew up, and a well-dressed young man alighted and entered the shop. After a friendly How-do-you-do? he glanced around and picked up two or three pieces of pottery. Handling one after another, he finally selected an imported Chinese vase, which he paid for. Glancing above the door as he prepared to leave, he gave a perceptible start when he saw the portrait of Washington. Just how much are you asking for that portrait, madam? he in- quired. Patsy, not knowing what to answer, as she had merely hung it for decoration, took the picture down. The gentleman inspected it closely. Suddenly, as they were looking at the painting, both seemed to see something at once. Yes, there it was! The name Rembrandt was written carelessly across the left-hand corner of the canvas. Q'Why, Patsy exclaimed, it's a masterpiece! I couldn't think of selling it before I found out the estimated value. I had no idea it was one of Rembrandts You see,,' she said, flushing as she said it, I picked it up in a small shop in New York. XVell,v he drawled, seemingly not at all surprised, I should like very much to take it with me now, as I am leaving shortly for England. I want to take the portrait to my mother, for Washington is a special favorite of hers. Couldn't I give you a deposit and leave my card? Send me a bill for the balance when you are ready. Patsy finally consented and, taking the man's card and a check for 5100, gave him the picture. She was delighted with the sale, but still dazed from the surprise it had given her. A few days later Maureen came out for a visit, but was disgusted with the rainy weather. Patsy told her about selling the portrait of Washington. I was certainly surprised when I found the painting was a Rem- brandt. I shall have to send Mr. Briggs a bill for the balance. How much do you think it is worth? i'Why,,, exclaimed Maureen, that picture could never have been a 'Rembrandtli Don't you know that the famous artist died in 1669 and Washington Wasnit even heard of until 1732? Some one is probably playing an expensive joke on youf' For goodness sake! gasped Patsy. 'KNever thought of that. What shall I do? The man will probably discover his mistake and blame me. How shall I ever explain it? Oh dear, do help me, Mauree! How could I ever have been so stupid? My success went to my head, I suppose. 'KWhy not call him by phone and explain?', suggested Maureen. He may be considerate and overlook the error iust to keep the portraitf, Patsy, in a frenzy, walked to the highway, and telephoning from the country club, called Mr. Briggs in New York City. She explained to Twen ty

Page 20 text:

THE REFLECTOR reasonable restaurant. After having gossiped for a while, they parted, and Patsy arrived at her boarding house about nine o'clock. The words, You're wanted on the phonef' and a series of raps on her door woke Patsy the next morning. It was Kenneth Ronson asking her to dinner that evening. She will- ingly accepted. Good old Ken! He was the sports editor of the paper and had worked for Bitt and Company about two years, during which time he had become acquainted with Patsy. A mutual friendship had sprung up between them and they often had dinner and attended the theater together. Although the slightest encouragement from Patsy might have led Ken to attempt advances, she maintained a friendly air, resolved to be independent. Ken Ronson thought the antique plan all nonsense and wanted her to give up the idea, but Patsy was not easily disillusioned. Nevertheless, he was a great help in the following weeks, driving Patsy all through the suburbs of New York, looking for just the proper place as a shop. Finally, after much searching, they found the house Patsy knew she wanted. It was just as she had pictured it-a white farm house with green roof and shutters, and an ideal archway over the door for her sign Antiques. The house itself was situated in a shady lane, branching off from the main highway-an ideal location for both tourists and city trade. Everything looked well taken care of, although the house was shut up and there was no sign of habitation. But Patsy rode back to the city in high spirits, knowing that Ken would find out about the place. Exactly four weeks later everything was settled. The farm house was easily rented, as the old lady who owned it had decided to remain in the city for the winter. Patsy was delighted and had bought all the antiques her money would allow. The Hrst floor of the house was one huge room which was devoted to the shop. Of course there was a fire- place, old hand-made rugs, colonial furniture, deep comfortable chairs, dishes, pottery, and even old-fashioned quilts and jewelry. There were pictures on the walls, some oil paintings and others, copies of famous paintings. These made quite an impression on the bank-roll. There was also a portrait of Wfashington which Patsy had found in the tiny garret of the house and Ken had nailed on the wall over the doorway. As the owner had taken everything from the house, Patsy naturally supposed the portrait was not wanted, and so it was added to her collection of antiques. Her one prized possession was a tall grandfather's clock which, in spite of its age, kept perfect time. There was even a purring Angora cat which Ken had brought from Jersey. Ken was constantly bringing and sending novelties from New York which he thought might sell for antiques. Yes, everything was ideal-that is, all but the trade. Winter was coming on, and the tourists were not very plentiful. Now and then, Patsy sold some trifle to a neighbor, but most of her callers, from curi- osity, merely stopped to chat with her. Occasionally some of the friendly Nineteen

Page 22 text:

THE REFLECTOR him breathlessly the error she had made, and apologized. She also agreed to return the check, if he so desired. Oh, thatls all rightf' the answer came back pleasantly over the phone. My mother is the woman to whom the house belongs, and she left the portrait behind by mistake. The name Rembrandt was written across the corner long ago by a friend of mother's who painted the pic- ture from Stuart's original. He thought it a huge joke, but evidently you think otherwise, by the sound of your voice. But the painting was, as I have already told you, a favorite of my mother, and she asked me to get it for her. When I saw you had it for sale, I hadn't nerve enough to ask for it, as I thought you wouldnlt believe it belonged to me. Con- sequently, the only thing I could do was to purchase it, even though it belongs to my mother. But as for the check, disregard it, for it isn't any good anyway. You know, I really didnlt buy anything from you and so owe you nothing. I thank you for your kindness and trouble, and good-day. And the voice at the other end of the wire broke off abruptly with a short laugh. 'lWell, can you beat that!', said Patricia indignantly, as she hung up the receiver. Almost in tears, she trudged through the muddy streets back to the shop. All her happy illusions, dreams of antiques-gone! Ken, reliable Ken, was waiting for her, and as he saw the dejected look with which she greeted him, asked, Are you still satisfied with being 'Independent Patricia'? If not, let's forget antique shops and bad checks. I'd like to take you into the city for dinner. Afterwards we can take in a theater, opera, or whatever you are in the mood for seeing. Come on, Pat dear. Why not?,' l'Of course, you silly boy,', murmured the remarkable Pat, her spirits again revived. Do you think I could resist such an enticing invitation?', KARIN SKOGLAND, June 1932. Waterfall Swirling, dashing, currents clashing, Halting, now, upon the brink, The streamlet rushes, unabashing, Then plunges o'er into the sink. A mist-spray rises, covering all, Making dim each outlined stone In fog-like blanket, while old Sol Peeps thru the iridescent foam. Ah, speak you of beauty unsurpassed, Of grand emotion within call? Then go you as the urge may last And look upon a waterfall. SYLVIO LAWRENCE ZANETTI, june 1931. Twenty-on