Isaac Newton High School - Newtonian Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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I continued down Cheepoin’s main street, incidentally, called the “Street with no name,” and meditated over the amazing spectacles and noise I had seen and heard. My short, meditating walk was broken when I plunged head - long into the gutter, mud splattering my new, double - breasted, hand-stitched suit, which I had im¬ ported from Yakland, a little village a few miles from the Belgian Congo’s southmost village. Here, while I was searching for a rare, tropical flower, I had befriended the natives. I cap¬ tured their hearts as follows: On my arrival they forced me into a huge pot, and built a fire under me. Evidently they were cannibals. As the water grew uncomfortably warm, one of the natives, probably the chef, tasted the broth. He discovered that my old boots and socks, boiled, had a more exotic taste than human soup, so I was given the freedom of the village. I was forced to give my word, however, that when I reached home, I would send them more old shoes. Since I had spent many years as a tailor’s apprentice, I also taught them how to sew; hence my imported suit. I placed a band-aid over the split in my head, received from the fall, pushed the odd brains which had oozed from the hole in my head into the gutter, (so no innocent passerby would slip on them) and continued my way. Luckily, enough brains were salvaged to permit me to read with utmost intelligence, the address on the parcel which had caused my fall. The address turned out to be a con¬ gested, cold-water flat, situated amid other, identically - alike, rat - traps. Hesitatingly, I glanced at the mail¬ boxes until I saw the room number I sought. Climbing the rickety stair¬ case, I found the room to be the attic. Evidently my party were no stock¬ brokers, and the residence was no penthouse. I knocked. Nobody an¬ swered. I knocked again and the impact of my pounding jarred the door, so it creaked open. From then on, I have exclusive rights and royalties to the sound effects used on the Inner Sanctum program. Though it was pitch - black inside, I entered courageously. Inside the room, I hea rd a perpetual thumping. I whirled around, ready to meet all comers but discovered it was only my heart beating. Suddenly a brilliant light blinded me, and roughly speaking, “ahem”, a hundred or more, big monstrosities that called them¬ selves men, dropped from the rafters of the attic onto my marvellous body, which I exhibit to the fairer sex, every summer, at Coney Island. They put up a valiant struggle, but you see, having taught amateurs like Joe Louis and Ezzard Charles all they know, I made short work of them, and “piled them up” as the pioneers used to pile logs for a log-house. “Cut”, I heard a booming, angry voice shout from above. Looking up, I saw a producer and director squatting in portable chairs — cameras, stunt¬ men and other cinema accessories, all perched on a suspended platform, near the rafters. Stage hands and camera men howled with laughter. To my humiliation, I had burst in, and com¬ pletely ruined a scene from a movie. After my spectacular entrance, the director made everything clear to me, the box, which tripped me, was placed on the street, intentionally, and if I hadn’t touched it, the regular actor was to come along, pick up the box, honestly return the box to the owners in the attic, but unlike myself, he was to be overpowered by the brutes, who so rudely attacked me—poor fellows! Meanwhile the camera car, watching the box on the street, mistook me for the original star, and shot all the scenes of me, from the time I fell, till the time I was at the foot of the apart¬ ment house. Concealed cameras picked up my journey from there. The pro¬ ducer decided to use me for the rest of the film, and a month later, held the premiere. I guess you know what happened when the picture was run. After the premiere, I was hailed as an up-and-coming box-office attraction. I signed a contract for fifty years, at one hundred thousand dollars a year (the movie heads knew talent when (Continued on Page 88) N E W T 0 N I A N 75

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CONCEPTION OF A TALL TALE .... A Tall Tale! Yes, my friends that’s what is set before you. “What is it?” you wonder, and perhaps will say “What purpose does it serve?” A tall tale may be termed a “figment of the imagination.” It is written usually when its writer is in a fanciful mood. Seldom is this story believed by its readers, for one realizes that its writer is obviously not serious. This type of story can overcome time and place. Often its writer reflects on the past or present and is able to create plans for the future. No, I expect you won’t believe the incidents related in these stories — you are not meant to do so — but, never fear, they show a talent for invention. Some of the tallest tales — of one generation or another — showed an elastic mind, which could jump far ahead — whether in humor, satire, discovery or whatnot. Who knows — maybe the writer of one of these “tall tales” may someday be written in the annals of Canadian celebrities. B. MacDonald A REGULAR Ten o’clock Monday morning I was awakened by ' the gentle tap of the alarm clock’s extended hand. After being lifted from my silken covered bed, dressed by a colored maid and fed by my butler, I was carried to my awaiting helicopter. Another day of school had arrived. When I got off the escalator, I sank two feet into a richly colored Persian carpet—my destination being a highly polished chrome door marked in atomic red — “Room Seven.” As I pushed a golden button, the door noiselessly slid open, and a highly polished robot handed me my books for the day, with my homework com¬ pleted. As I settled down in my “lazy SCHOOL DAY boy” chair, the teacher, reclining on a softly padded couch, smoking a pipe, pressed a series of buttons; the black¬ boards revolved and the day’s lessons were revealed. Promptly at eleven o’clock, cokes and doughnuts were served. Then the bell, tinkling various popular tunes, indicated a change of classes. Since undue exertion had deprived me of my sleep, I sought permission to leave. It was granted, although no excuse was given. Thus school had ended until Friday, for a regular school week consisted of two days of work and three days of complete leisure! Olga Stackiw THE IRRESISTIBLE MR. B. Before you start jumping to con¬ clusions about my story which follows, I would like to state that it is an original, harrowing experience of mine, and that I am lucky to be alive now to pass my escapades on to you— My story dates back about a month ago to a dark, eiry night in the thriving city of Cheepoin. A heavy fog hung overhead, enveloping the city, shutting out the stars and the moon, but, wierdly enough, sunlight pierced the dense fog in several places. To add to this pheno¬ menon, I heard a deep, moaning sound. Because I had served in the Monmouth Rebellion, the Boer War, the American Revolution, and in both of the Great World Wars, I recognized the sound to be a fog-horn. How, I ask you, can a tug-boat, from which the fog-horn must have sounded, be in the vicinity of a town, thousands of miles from the coast and equally far from any river, lake or swimming hole? 74 Isaac Newton High School

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Oil John Palamar 76 Isaac N ewton