Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle, well-known photographer about town, had an assignment yesterday to take a series of pictures of Jean Parker, famous motion picture star. After the pictures were taken Miss Parker complimented Mr. Stoyle on his skill. “I’ve been photographed in Hollywood many times and also all over the United States and Cohasset,” she said, “but I’ve never met a photographer who had that indescribable savoir-faire as you have,” she told him. “Why don’t you go to Hollywood and show those lunkheads out there a little something about photography?” Mr. Stoyle smiled deprecatingly and went home. It was old stuff to him.
Richard Stoyle is helping his father stain the shingles on their home at 72 Taylor Street, this city. The shingles have never been stained before and are naturally very dry. His father warned Richard that the shingles would absorb a good deal of stain and it would be wise for him to keep a firm grip on the brush. Richard took this warning to heart with odd results. His mother called him to lunch and received no answer. Becoming irritated at this apparent neglect Mrs. Stoyle went out back to slip Richard a piece of her mind and was thunderstruck to see just his feet protruding from the shingles. Seems he had held onto the brush and had followed it right into the shingles. The Fire Department came and pulled him out. “Good thing we got here when we did,” the chief observed. “The kid might have starved to death in a couple of days.” “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Mrs. Stoyle said, succinctly.
It has been reported on high authority that Richard Stoyle is contemplating staying home one night this week.
Many letters and telephone calls have been received by the Wollaston Pharmacy the past week. A number of customers, mostly bobby soxers, have missed one of the clerks, Everett Stoyle by name. When the soxers learned that Everett was in New Hampshire with one Charles Watson the girls threw up their hands in despair. “He’ll never be the same,” they moaned. A last minute bulletin from Everett to this newspapers states that there seem to be more girls in New Hampshire than Mass. “I can’t get away from them anywhere,” he shrieked in dismay.
Mrs. Stoyle has a new dress. “Had to buy it for the old girl before the Watch and Ward Society got after me,” Mr. Stoyle said when cornered back of the garage. “But I don’t begrudge it to her,” he continued, “she isn’t a bad sort — after you get to know her.”
MISSING PERSON. A countrywide search is being made for the whereabouts of Judith Stoyle. Half way through her second year at the University of Massachusetts Judith suddenly switched from floriculture to animal husbandry and a number of people have considered her a psychopathic case ever since. She began to ramble in her conversation, slipping in such odd remarks as “dropping calves,” “sterilizing stalls” and so forth. Her parents advise that, although somewhat queer, she is not dangerous and will probably go quietly when apprehended. They expect that she will end up at some institution, state controlled. “At least we will know where she is,” her mother said, bravely.
Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle has been asked to run for vice president with Harry Truman. “Where could we find a more outstanding citizen in the country” one man inquired. “Would add considerable strength to the ticket,” another observed. “Could beat Dewey and Warren easily. A great campaigner. Would attract the woman vote.” These were some of the observations made by interested politicians. Mr. Stoyle said he was too busy.
On Saturday Mr. Stoyle took a photo of Mayor Ross presenting a bouquet of flowers to Miss Ruth Gordon, the actress. The occasion was the presentation of one of Miss Gordon’s plays in Quincy for the benefit of the Society for the Preservation of Backyard Gossip. After the picture was taken Miss Gordon suggested to Mr. Stoyle that he write a play for her to star in on Broadway. “I’m sure it would be a hit,” she said. “I know it would,” Mr. Stoyle remarked, “but I’m too busy.” Got to get going on my spring planting.”
Richard Stoyle expects to get his picture in the Quincy Ledger. The word is that Richard is president of the North Quincy High School band and the band is going to give a concert eftsoons. “You might think it would give ‘em fitts,” Richard said, referring to the other members of the band. “As a matter of fact they’ve got fitts already.” (That’s a joke, daughter, that’s a joke. ——– or is it?)
As a general rule editors of newspapers seldom have anything to look at in the way of art. Ye editor of this publication is different. The artistry of Currier and Ives adorn his walls. To the uninitiated these chromos picture the way of life of a by-gone era. It is only when one stops to analyze one of these pictures that the true meaning of the horrendous thing springs to life.
Before the editor is a picture of a little group situated on the piazza of a country cottage overlooking a pond about the size of Lake Huron. On the right sits a woman clad in a red smoking jacket and a voluminous yellow skirt. She holds a book in one hand, presumably the Bible. A man bearing a tremendous resemblance to General Grant sits opposite her. Standing between them is a man holding a fish faintly reminiscent of a fifteen pound striped bass. The man looks at the fish sadly. The fish isn’t looking at anything, being quite dead. On the floor are two children, a little girl and a boy. The boy is very busy hauling fish out of a hamper, scattering them all over the floor. The picture is entitled “Home from the Brook.”
It all looked peaceful enough but it isn’t all there. The words are missing. What really happened is this. The man looks sad for two reasons. He knows his wife thinks he bought the fish at the store. And he barged in on the two of them at the wrong time. He knows this because his wife says so. “You are the dumbest cluck I’ve ever seen,” she says. “Here I was reading Forever Amber to neighbor Pontoon and I just about had him worked up to taking a pass at me and you show up,” she says, angry-like. “And with a mess of stinking fish,” she says. “Might I ask who the hell is going to clean ‘em? Who’s going to snake their guts out and scale ‘em? I’m telling you right now that I’m not going to do it. I hate fish and I might add,” she continues bitterly, “I take a very dim view of you, too. Busting up a pleasant afternoon with a friendly neighbor. Take ‘em back to the lake,” she says, “and throw ‘em back in. And if you feel like jumping in after them it will be all right with me.”
That’s the way it goes. Things aren’t always what they seem.