Daniel McIntyre Collegiate Institute - Breezes Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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D.M. C. I. BREEZES 31 A VISIT TO THE PICARDY FACTORY QN November 30th, Grade IX. Practical Arts girls, accompanied by Miss Kathleen Dowler, visited the Picardy Factory. The visit was planned in order that the girls who were making their own chocolates for Christmas work in the Domestic Science, would be able to compare home methods and facilities with commercial ones. The girls had already had their first lesson on making fondant. Fondant is the usual foundation for all soft centres of chocolates. Each girl had bought a pound of sugar and the project was to see who could manufacture on first trial a pound of fondant of creamy consistency. This was stored away for a week, then flavoured, colored, and formed into a variety of shapes. The next step was to melt some specially pre¬ pared sweet chocolate, and dip each centre, with the aim of turning each out, shiny and brown and well formed like those on the market. The object in visiting Picardy’s, therefore, was to see how this is achieved. There was much to see! First a batch of clear taffy, cooling, which was punched a few times; coloring was added, and after a few turns over a hook, the whole was run through a machine, which turned it out into neat and glistening ruby-red beads, threaded on a cord ready to cut into lengths to grace the Christmas tree. All around were tables full of candy in various stages. Pecan- clusters, walnuts, nougatine, creamy fudge, marshmallows, eocoanut centres, as well as hard candies, and ginger fudge—all before our eyes. These were being cut and moulded into numerous shapes by girls or men who worked skilfully and quickly. We were too late to see the fondant mixed. That usually is done in the morning, in order to complete before eight, the process from raw sugar to the finished chocolates. We looked at the fondant machine which beats one hundred pounds at a time; and then we remembered how tired our arms were after beating one pound. This was one way in which the commercial equipment was superior to ours. Next there was a whole room of chocolates. Think of it! Boxes to the right of us; boxes to the left of us; boxes all around us; packed and being packed with chocolates. At a long table sat women dipping chocolates all day long by hand, pound after pound. Each had her trough of melted chocolate, and each had a tray on which to drop them, as she gave a final professional twirl or twist to the top. We wondered if we could be half so skilful! We did not even know, as yet, how to hold our dipping forks! As a final delight, Mr. Gribbens presented Miss Dowler with a box of chocolates to share with the class. They were ' handed to Thelma Franklin, who had made a nice little “thank you” speech on behalf of the class for the courtesies they had been shown. It was too late to see the cooks at work in t ' he bakery, but we were shown the equipment, including the huge ovens. We caught inte resting glimpses of freshly baked tarts and cakes, and patty shells awaiting

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80 D. M. C. r. BREEZES ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE “A LL 1C world’s a stage,” said Shakespeare, “and all the men and women merely players.” We agree absolutely! Nifty metaphor, in fact! And by the same token, why not think of Daniel McIntyre as another stage, a lesser one, we admit, hut nevertheless a not unworthy one. Then, we further ruminate, everyone in it must be “merely players.” And since players must have something to play, we finally evolve a wonderful plot; even go so far as to plan the cast. The plot we will leave to your imagination, but we think you may be interested in the cast, and forthwith publish it for your approval. Dramatis Personnae Hero, rising young mechanic (note his determined jaw)—Bob Alexander. Heroine—g oes through poppa’s millions in short order—strong for women’s rights—Edith Horton. Villain—smooth customer with a roving eye—Harold Chittick. Butler—His Royal Highness (in knee breeches)—Waverley Wilson. Parisian Vamp—the villian’s confederate—Edna Mason. Heroine’s Mother—society matron—Frances Fox. Hero’s Mother-—a sweet old lady, who knits—beloved by all—- Lillian Furney. Peggy and Cyril—young sister and brother of the heroine—’miff said—Marguerite Ross and Bill Lamont. Pussyfoot—the plain clothes man—-Fred Lang. Reporter—a bright young man from the “Morning Star”—Harold Finsness. Bully—foreman of the factory—sure packs ' a punch—Bob Wil¬ liamson. The Ice-man—key to the situation and the coolest man in the play —Lloyd Bruce. Bill—organizer of games in the factory, and general handy-man— Bill Kibblewhite. Hero’s Sisters—sweet young things who play the piano—Helen and Louise Templeton. —H. P., Room 56. THE FINEST CARPET IN THE WORLD What has been said to be the world’s finest carpet has recently been purchased in England by James F. Ballard, an American, who has made a hobby of collecting Persian carpets. The masterpiece of the rugmaker’s art is nearly four centuries old and valued at more than half a million dollars. It is the work of one man, who laboured on it for nearly twenty years. The carpet has belonged successively to Shah Safi, Peter the Great of Russia, and Leopold the First of Austria, and for years it has hung on the staircase of the royal palace near Vienna. —Magnus Johnson, Room 12.

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32 D. M. C. I. BREEZES baking. No wonder, we began to feel enormously hungry for our dinners! Quickly we made our adieux and with happy hearts went home to plan what wonderful chocolates we would turn out at our next Domestic Science lesson. We have had that lesson, and each girl has gone home laden with a whole pound and a half boxful, made and paid for entirely by herself. Miss Dowler thought they were wonderful, too! And Mr. Campbell thought they were Picardy’s. Don’t you wish you had been around that day? —Olive Vogel, Room 52. IRISH HILLS To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— The Irish hills where primrose tints The whole earth there, with colour pale As fairies’ wings, and sunlight glints Across the stream, and through the dale. To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— The Irish hills, where each June night The good “wee folk” in dresses made Of petals, yellow, mauve, and white, Are dancing ’neath pale Luna’s shade. To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— The Irish hills where Beauty walks In gown of gracious greens and blues, The hills where Beauty even talks, (If you can hear) and shows her views. To dream of Irish hills Is the loveliest thing in the world— Shure! the Irish hills have caught my heart, With their long, dim woods where shamrock grows, With their feet in the sea, and their topmost part Still far away, sweet, and tinted with rose. To dream of Irish hills Is the saddest thing in the world— The Irish hills, whose cool, soft rain, Whose sweet, dim sounds, and shadows pale T’ll never feel nor see again. Och, Erin! for a ship and sail! —C. C. The army was crossing a bridge and Pat got out of line. “Fall in.” said the commander. Pat looked at the water and said: “Too deep.”