Eastern High School of Commerce - Eastern Echo Yearbook (Toronto, Ontario Canada)

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48 EASTERN ECHO VVe will, however, let that rest and consider the hero. Since the male reader will not be interested in him, he may as well skip this paragraph. From the masculine standpoint, the hero, nine times out Off ten, looks like an overgrown sissy ia-nyway, so w:hat's the odds? Une point is essential. The hero must have curly hair and a determined chin. Oh yes! they all have to have determined c-hins. No well- equipped hero is without one. VVell, since we cannot agree on anything else, let us pass on. Oh yes, we forgot the villain. Unlike the villains in the Return of Sherlock Holmes this one has no black beard. Th-is feature h-as shrunk considerably into a s-mall pencil mark over the upper lip, which grandad, even in his gidfdiest mo-ments wo-uld never have deigned to call a moustache. A-nd of course, t'he villain must have a roaldster. The more expensive type we make it, the better villain he will become. He mus-t be well-dressed and mingle with the best society CII forgot. to mention that the hero must work for a Hliving, with a ric-h aunt in the offing who is liable to pop off at any momentj. But to get back to the menace, he must dan-ce divinely. Div-inely, I assure you is the only word tha-t fits the villain's dancing. T-hey never dance charmingly nor wonderfully, always divinely. So, as I said, the villain dances divinely. He is, of course, good-'loo-king, and to prevent the heroine from fal-ling in love with the villa-in which would be a major catastrophe, I am afraid it w-ill be necessary to sling some mud. Let us make dark insinuations about his past. It mi-ght be a good idea to have him go around robbing wido-ws or foreclosinig mortgages in his spare time, but this is a point which is optional. As for plot, that is of minor -consequence, providing we can, in some way, have the -heroine in the villain's clutclhes with the hero arriving at the psychological moment for the rescue. It might be advisable to throw in an extra thrill by having t-he heroine nearly run over by a locomotive in t-he opening chapters, saved of course by the hero, who modestly introduces 'himself as Mr. So and So, poor but honest. Of course it does not need to be a locomotive, for I cannot see why a steam-roller would n-ot serve the same purpose, but then there is al-ways something so intanigibly thrilling about being run over by a locomotive, whereas a steam-roller invariably leaves one cold, so I think t'he loco- motive gets the vote.. Now W-ith all the materials at hand, we can proceed. Those interested in t'he progress of the story may stop me in the Commerce Hall provided I look norimal. But if I have a idisihevelled appearance, if my eye ha-s a glazed look, if I seem to be mfumfbling to myself, vou will know that I have either forgotten to put in the plot or have committed some ot'her catastrophe equally drastic. -James Kew, 4G2, 300. Retribution T was Christmas Eve. Nigiht was slowly wrapping the city of New York in a cloak of darkness. Soft, white snow flakes floafted down from above, transforming even the ugliest and dirtiest streets of the city into a virtual fairyl-and. Last miin-ute shoppers bustled 'hither and -thither, from store -to st-ore, 'in a frenzy of excitement. Dirty little street urchins pressed their faces against plate glass windows, gazing 1

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EASTERN ECHO 47 I wove around it. I wondered if age-old trees, carefully guarding that well-worn way should speak, would they tell of primitive caravans. rumbling along, hard-pressed by treacherous Redmen, riding with immuta-ble faces, mile after mile? And now, today, my dreams have matured into realit-ies. 1 am at one with the free companions off the ever-open road. I have journeyed over ways that follow ragged shore-lines, and watched white phantom- like ships stealth-ily push out to sea-ships that, as a child, made me dream of foreign ports, mahogany-faced men with golden rings in their ears, and flaming bandannas, or of Maseheld's . . . island in the Spanish Seas, tiny white houses and orange trees, of coral reefs and cinnamon groves. I have travelled roads at midnight-roads that, lying s. dreamy beneath night's velvety mantle, reminded me very much of Alfred Noyes' The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The .moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the puirple moor . . ' It is a great life, this. No cramping betwixt four wallsg only the high roof of heaven above, and the flames of a roadside fire leaping merrily. It is a great life! -Florence Bates, 4S2. Cn Writing Short Stories WAS talking to three friends of mine the other day about the relative merits of the popular modern-day authors. AOne main- tained that, in his -opinion, there would only be one Edgar VValflace. Another believed only in P. G. Wodeihouse, while the feminine member of our quartette held out for love stories and added, rather discon- certingfly, that she didn't give a hang who wrote them. Now you may be wondering why my opinion was not expressed. That is the problem wh-ich I am still facing, for, you see. l have to Write a short story and I have to see which type, if any, is apt In be most appreci-ated by the readers. I t-hink we shall 'decide on the love story. So let us accordingly draw up our system of campaign. First, of course, from the male standpoint, comes the heroine. Let us consider what size she should be. How about shoulder high? That should satisfy all readers of all statures for -they can then work out the details for themselves and everybody will be happy. ller eyes. ah! there is an all-important item. lt seems to be the practice of most uf our writers to give the heroine some distinctive quality. Now I read not long ago of a heroine who had violet eyes. I still am rather sceptif cal on this point for I have never seen a pair of eyes that even approached violet. However. I shall not condemn the author in question. rather shall T give my support for his originality. And for the sake of being a li-ttle out -of the ordinary, don't you think we could give our heroine violet eyes too?

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EASTERN ECHO 49 hungrily at toys which, for some reason they could not comprehend, would not be by their bedside on Christmas Day. Long, low, limousines bore beautiful ladies and handsome gentlemen to 'the various places of amusement which the city had to offer. Christmas spirit was in 'the veryatmosphere. lt could be felt in the breathless air of excite- ment which overhung the pulsing mass of humanity, it could be seen wherever 'the eye fell. Bright, glittering tinsel, red and green trim- mings, huge paper bells and hundreds of novel decorations were dis- played in the store windows of even the humblest merchants. The whole enormous city seemed to be shouting Yuletide gree-tings at each and every one of its children. lt could be heard in the buzz and hum of the moving mo-b. All these things served to create in the minds of the crowd the spirit of giving. This accounted for the smile on the face of B-lind B-ill, who sat huddled in a heap on -the pavement, his crutches beside him and his tin cup in -his hand, listening to the steady stream of coins which were dropped into it by kind-hearted persons who were deeply moved by the pathetic sight. Late th-at night, when the city had wrapped itself in slumber and the .lights in all the store w-indows slowly went out, one by one, Blind Bfill with the aid of his crutches slowly hobbled along on his one good leg. He Wended his way up a long, narrow street on the East Side of -the city. As he opened the door of one of the dirty, dreary, dilapi- dated houses 'he was greeted by loud, lusty shouts of welcome. Hi, there Bill! How was business, you must have made a pretty haul to-day? Not too bad, not too bad, was the reply. The main t-hen proceeded to take off the coloured glasses, unstrap his leg, stretch it a few times an-d walk around the smoky room full of dangerous look-ing men, as whole and sound in every respect as any of -the people who had given him their money. This neatly concealed 'hiding place was the rendezvous of the most tre-acfherou-s gang of crimi-n-als ever known in the history of the city. For t-hir-ty years they had bafiied t-he police by the daring and cunning of the robberies and hold-ups they had committed. Many times one of the notorious gangsters ha-d almost been caught, but a cruel fate seemed to take a pleasure in keeping the criminals just beyond the reach of the law. That n-ight, as he dressed himself, in a room far to the back of -the house, Bill's gaze rested fondly on the picture of a pretty girl about nineteen years of age. His memory travelled back to the Christmas Eve so mwany years ago, when he had stumibled on a little heap of humanity t-hat 'had been left on his front doorstep. For nineteen years Bill had sat on tihe street corners begging so that he could bring up this girl and give ber everything she desired. He had never been loved by anyone in all his life, and the adoring devotion of his foster daughter am-ply repaid him for any hardships 'he -h-ad suffered. There was not the slightest resemblance between the pompous, prosperous-looking William I. Crawford and the deiected, drooping figure of the blind beggar on the street corner. and yet they were one and the same man. As this gentleman's limousine slowly slid up the long winding drive to his p'alati1al residence, the front door was