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Page 17 text:
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Newspaper Mam Did you ever think about the newspaper man? For he is really the most important man in your community. He works day and night in places unheard of Because he knows its his duty to get news for his customers. He takes pictures in the most horrible yet exciting places. He writes about homes and people to bring sympathy to the hearts of his fans. He never writes about what he has done for his community, But he just writes about what somebody else has done for it. So be sure to remember when you read a newspaper That the people who are responsible for it are really your closest friends. A Canary ' s Frame of Mind I am a canaary, and my name is Butch. I pride myself on being a good singer, and my preferred accompanists are the vaccum cleaner, typewriter, and saxo- phone. My good for nothing mistress, that Ellis kid, thinks I don ' t like her. I like her mother, though. Strangely enough, mistress cleans me on Saturday and Sun- day. I see nothing of her on week days; her mother takes care of me. Since as I belong to her, I think she should take care of me all the time. That ' s why I don ' t like her. Elizabeth ellis. You are to guess this friend of mine, And if you do we ' ll say it ' s fine. His hair is blonde, his eyes are blue, His skin is fair with a freckle or two, His height is right, his weight is light, His speed to lunch is a regular flight. He toots a horn in Garfield Band, That slides first in then out again. He runs and jumps and plays and sings, And does a lot of other things. DOROTHY MICHEL, High Eight. This Friend of Mine CARTER NORRIS, Low Nine. The Haunted House Yes, it was a haunted house, The boards would creak and groan, And when the wind would blow at night, The house would creak and moan. Not only roared the thunder loud, And shook the earth below, But from the house there shot a light, A fierce and horrible glow. Yes, it was a haunted house, Ghosts could be seen around, And when the lightning flashed above, There ' d be a terrible sound. The neighbors from their homes rushed fort h, Rushed from their beds as snug, And when they reached the haunted house, Behold! A mouse and lightning bug. VIVIAN VAUGHN, Low Nine.
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Page 16 text:
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The Plav s the Thing A pale faced youth in a threadbare overcoat brushed past the doorman. He seemed out of place in the luxurious surroundings of the hotel lobby. Impatiently, he waited for the elevator. After what seemed a very long time to him the door opened and he strode in. Top floor, he whispered nervously. You mean Mister Lubrosko ' s suite? the operator asked dubiously. The youth nodded. With a half-incredulous glance the operator pressed a button, and they whizzed upward. In a few seconds they abruptly stopped, and the passenger stepped out onto the soft carpet. The elevator door closed noiselessly, and he was alone. Might as well get it over with, he thought resolutely, then entered the recep- tion room. A girl was in one corner at a large desk pecking busily at a clinking typewriter. Is Mr. Lubrosko in? he inquired hesitantly. Have you an appointment? she asked impersonally, but rather sus- piciously, too. Yes, he answered. The name is Smith — John Smith. Oh yes, Mr. Smith, Mr. Lubrosko will see you now. His short hair, which was flaming red in contrast to his almost grey com- plexion, seemed to stand on end as he was ushered into Mr. Lubrosko ' s presence. The distinguished producer of Broadway hits was reclining on a couch. Nearby was an ashtray, overflowing with cigar butts. His short, fat little body seemed lost in the maze of cushions. Good day, sir, the youth started weakly. Then — with dreadful anticipation — Have you . . . decided? Are you Smith? queried the producer, as he lit another cigar. Seeing the youth nod, he looked through a drawer and drew out a manuscript. It ' s not the type I want, he said casually. Sorry. Silently the youth took the sheaf of papers offered him. Thank you, he managed to say, and hurriedly left. In a moment he was out in the street again, tears of disappointment welling in his eyes. It ' s back to-the farm for me, he thought bitterly. Then he looked down at the neatly typed manuscript. John Smith ' s flop, he mused, and tossed it out into the busy street. As he started to walk toward the tenement section where he lodged, a shout rang out above the bedlam all around. He turned, and was startled to see a pudgy figure in shirt-sleeves puffing down the sidewalk amidst the amused stares of pedestrians. Mr. Lubrosko! he cried, in genuine amazement. Smith! I mistook you for someone else! Your play ' s great stuff! Where is it? For answer, the youth turned toward the intersection. In the street was a muddy, tangled, hopelessly scattered and torn bunch of unrecognizable scraps. I threw my play away, he said, sadly, and shrugged his shoulders. Silently he turned, and the crowd was about to swallow him up when the half-paralyzed producer suddenly came to life. A Mona Lisa smile played across his features, and his eyes twi nkled subtly. Wait, Smith, he called. Why prolong the agony? the youth muttered almost inaudibly as he picked his way back to the little man. Yes? he asked simply. I just remembered, the producer beamed with evident relief. I gave you the wrong manuscript. REED STONE, High Eight.
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