Riverbend School for Girls - Vox Fluminis Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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22 Vox Fluminis the second story windows of which bore a gaudy gold inscription: Aren- novitch and Sieberling-Mortgages- Real Estatef' Rita wondered dreamily what was going on up there . . . PF PF Dk P14 In the offices of I. M. Arennovitch, of Arennovitch and Sieberling, two men stood face to face. One was tall, black- haired, and olive-skinned, his erect bearing giving him almost a military appearance. The other was shabby and dirty, his shoulders were slightly stooped, and his eyes bloodshot. I know I can't keep up the payments on the house, he said, his voice full of weary discouragement. But if I could only find work . . . You mean, if you could only keep work when you got it, Arennovitch cut in sharply. He was tired of this shift- less, dissolute Bill Cavers, with his everlasting whine. The man's hands were so unsteady as a result of his ex- cessive drinking that he could keep no kind of a job! For two years he had been trying to make the last payments on his little cottage, and now it seemed that he would have to give up. If you're intimating that my work isn't as good as yours, or anyone else's . . . . growled the dissolute, his eyes kindling with a hot light. Im not intimlating anything, Cavers, interposed the other coolly, except that your last payment was to have been made two years ago, and this firm has, since then, held the legal right to lay claim to your property. You mean . . . Cavers started as if he had received an electric shock. The sullen defiance of his last words melted away, and his voice almost trembled. Exactly, said Mr. Arennovitch drily. But . . . how can a man live with no work and no home, when he's got a wife and six kids-and two of 'em sick and . . . Cavers was whimpering now-his words came in a querulous rush. 'Tm sorry, Cavers. Somehow, he hated to say it-that whining voice and weary, lined face disturbed him. Arennovitch was young-he had never known poverty, and was not ursed to dealing with haggard, discouraged men like the one before him now. But Cav- ers deserved it-he usually thought more of his billiards than of his work and family . . . I'm sorry, he said again, and his voice held that note of finality which signalled a close. lk Pk 'lf wk Past the brick building went the bus -slower than ever, to Rita's disgust. They were passing a long row of one- storey shops, all of which looked Very much the same. Rita noticed that one of them had a sign on the window: Sheet Music, Records, Allyour favor- ite songs. A musi-c store--nothing in particular could happen there . . . Ik lk Ik Il' It was a dark, dusty, low-ceilinged little place. On entering, one would have thought it entirely deserted, but back in the corner, where an ancient grand piano stood, an elderly man was rummaging through a pile of tattered music. A shaft of gray light shot into the store as the door opened, and a little girl, of about eleven years of age, en- tered. She was small, quite plump, and black, curly hair framed her round, pink cheeks and fell over her shoulders, its color matching velvety, intensely black eyes. Hello, Grandpa! she carolled, run- ning to the old man. Why Gnydia Hirscholot! returned the grandfather, with pseudo-severity, you're zo late, I thought you weren't coming! 'iOh, I stayed at school to-to clean the blackboards! she smiled, her eyes twinkling mischieviously. You mean, to finish your arithmetic -liddle zlow poke-but what will you zing for me today? The old man seat- ed himself at the piano, his hands rest- ing expectantly on the keys.

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Vox Fluminis 21 E l l.li63-VO fy THE PLOWMAN Lonely and tired at close of day, His footsteps halting and slow, The ploughman treads his homeward way Through the glorious sunset's glow. His eyes are dimm'dg his hair is white, His clothes are tattered and torn, He wanders home in the deepening night, And he toils in the early morn. He has no riches, he has no gain, His cottage is far from grand. He finds his gold in the golden grain, His joy-in ploughing the land. For what cares he, if his clothes are worn, If his only wealth is his land? All he asks is a sunlit morn, And the feel of the plough in his hand. He finds his strength in growing things, He gives what he has to God, His spirit Hnds joy in the life that springs From the heart of the rich brown sod. He spends his hours in endless toil, He fears not trouble or strife, For out of the earth comes his only mirth, Out of the soil-his life. Lonely and tired at close of day, His footsteps halting and slow, The ploughman treads his homeward way Through the glorious sunset's glow. And he kneels in the dust of his rich brown sod, And he raises a gnarled old hand, As he offers his thanks to his Maker, God, Who has given him life-and his land! MARIE BoND, Grade IX, Garry Hall. NORTH MAIN FIVE o'clock! The horn tooted twice, and the St. George bus rolled away from the depot. Rita Morin sank back into the comfortable padded seat, and the nicest thoughts passed through her mind, one after the other, in a dreamy way. School was over for the term, ex- ams done, and now-going home,-and Easter only four days away! Every- thing was just wonderful . . . She looked out of the window, wish- ing that they would soon be out of the maze of city traffic and on to the high- way, where they could proceed at greater speed. Everything was wonder- ful-except the weather-and its eHects on crowded Main Street did not make it seem any better. Yesterday there had been a heavy thaw, after which the night had brought frost, and now the roads and sidewalks were a sheet of dirty ice. The sky was clouded, and the tuneless moan of a rising wind pre- dicted snow. The bus lurched slowly along the icy road, among the congestion of auto- mobiles, street-cars and people. What a dirty, noisy street North Main was- and especially when there was no sun to make a pretence of a glitter on its dirty windows and walls! Oh, if they could only go faster! Rita was really becoming annoyed-how quickly good humours disappear! Oh well, no use fretting! She leaned back again, and resumed her study of the street. They were passing a tall, red brick building,

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Vox Fluminis .23 'I'oujours, replied the little girl promptly, courtseying gaily to an imag- inary audience. And if there had been an audience present, it would have quite fallen in love with the little singer, as the clear, soaring notes floated through the little shop. J e t'aimerai toujours-si tu garderas ta cour pour moi . . . The old man swayed gently to the lilting, tango rhythm, and a happy half- smile crossed his face. He loved his little granddaughter almost to the point of worship, and cherished great hopes for her. Time would tell, and, oh-she could sing! Gnydia, he mused, as the song ended, and the prima-donna court- seyed again. I believe you are more a French demoiselle than a Polish girl. Mamma is French-and there are so many lovely French songs, you know, replied Gnydia, humming the tango and pierrouetting around the room. Well, maybe you will be in opera some day, grandfather laughed. Un- consciously he picked up a movie mag- azine which had been lying on the On the front cover was a pic- counter. ture of Deanna Durbin .... wk ik Ik Ik They sidered had reached what Rita con- about the worst place in the whole city-the subway. A decrepit dance-hall and restaurant -- what places! - but at the other side of the bridge stood quite the worst looking building imaginable. It was a personi- fication of dirt-the walls were sooty, gray brick, and the lig-hts inside emit- ted a dingy glare from the dusty win- dow panes. On the side wall was paint- ed, in huge red letters- Diamond Hotel-rooms 75c. Ugh! Who would ever enter such a place? Sk Sk Sk Ill At that moment, someone was enter- ing the Diamond Hotel. He was a boy about nineteen years of age, and the only feature which prevented him from being entirely nondescript in appear- ance, with his colorless complexion and dirty clothes, was a pair of exceedingly striking deep blue eyes, in which shone a wild, frightened light. A cloud of cigar smoke blew into his face as he opened the door of the building and stepped furtively inside. Edging around the crowd of loafers, as if to avoid notice, he crept up to the registration desk. Behind the desk sat the proprietor of the hotel, the respectable Isaac Gold- stein. He had placed a pair of dirty, horn-rimmed glasses on his red, hooked nose, and with an air of intense pre- occupation, pored over the headlines of a morning newspaper. A slight cough from the other side of the desk inter- rupted him suddenly, and, as he looked at the young intruder, he started visi- bly. In a second, he recovered his com- posure, and a mocking grin overspread his face. Why, my dear Fritz, he said, with an unpleasant accent on the dear, What ever are you doing here? Don't you consider it a bit dangerous? The boy reddened slightly, and drew a deep breath, as if steeling himself for an ordeal. Leaving out the sarcasm, he said, in a low voice, I'd like to ask you something. Well, well-a favour! sneered Gold- stein. And after telling me two years ago that you would never again lower yourself to have anything to do with me? Please forget it, said Fritz, his lip curling slightly. I want to stay here for a while. No one would look for me in a public sort of place like this, people usually hide in some little out- of-the-way dump that's easier to get away from. i'Mm-m. Goldstein glanced at the newspaper. The front page was almost entirely filled with accounts of a mur- der which had taken place the day be- fore, in which a band of reckless gangs- ters had killed a policeman. The head- line ran as follows: Police find no trace as yet of Pete Schmidt or his