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Page 30 text:
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hope to possess. He was tired, not from mere physical exertion, but from the great struggle within himself, and the weighty problems with which his great mind wrestled. It rested now in the hands of the people to decide the great issue over which he had struggled so many times, to prove that “Might” must end its cruel and heartless reign and “Right” should be the ruler forever. Practically friendless now, save for the Black Men whom lie strove to emancipate, and seeing no other course, he had made an appeal to the people for troops. Would they respond? Or would they think (as many other thought) that it was a hopeless task? No answer from his country meant that slaves still must seek the long-hoped for freedom. He sighed again; he realized that though he now held the chance for which he had worked and prayed, “to hit slavery, and hit it hard,” he was as. powerless now as lie had been then, a young man on the river boat. Now he was the head of a great nation, endangered by war and secession, the one to whom all faces turned, some beseech- ingly, some threateningly and many in an unfriendly manner. Truly, the young rail-splitter had progressed. The weary man sighed once more and straightened from his bent position. 'I'lie usually quiet boulevard was in a tumult; marching feet accompanied by shouts and songs aroused him enough to step out upon the balcony directly overlooking the street. He was dazed for a mo- ment. unable to comprehend the full portent of all that was happening. 'Hie great roar of voices singing triumphantly: “We are coming Father Abraham, fifty thousand strong,” barely told him the full meaning, but finally upon the kindly face appeared the knowledge of the full significance. A sob escaped him and as he turned towards his people, a prayer of thanksgiving and a promise of success lit up his face like a benediction. Marion Devlin, '27. (The author of the preceding essay ivas the winner of the Lincoln Prize P.ssav Medal awarded February 12, ,926 by the Illinois Watch Company, for the finest essay on Abraham Lincoln 'written by a member of the Anna Head School.) I 24 I
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Page 29 text:
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Alas! What have 1 done! The nymph is dead, As fade the summer flowers o’er the land, When boisterous Autumn, tossing his cruel head, Crushes and kills them with his withering hand. Forgive me, nymph, I did not understand That my gay kisses meant cold death to you. Love of a mortal laid you on this sand; For you, who were so glad, all joy is through, And I will roam the empty forest, searching you! Eleanor Burgess, ’26. Qharaeter Sketch off a Mae The deep leather chair in the library of the Executive Mansion, on a certain afternoon in 1861, held a lonely, discouraged man. The scene itself was cheerless, and the despondent position of the man showed how discouraged he really was. 'In the great stone fire- place a fire had been burning, and now, as if it, too, were weary of life, it threw a few feeble flickers on the shadowy walls and then settled into a heap of glowing coals. The gray sky, even, had a menacing look and gave practically no light to the dim room that fifteen presidents had previously occupied. But had any of these men faced as seemingly hopeless a problem as this sixteenth man now faced ? He was sitting far back in the chair, but his ungraceful back was bent forward. His elbows were on his knees, and his great rough head rested wearily in his hands. He sighed occasionally, and once a sound strangely like a sob shook the gaunt figure. No other sound broke the quiet of the White House, except the soft, crumbling sound of the fire and the slamming of a shutter in some distant part of the house. Truly, he was not a handsome figure and yet his large awkward frame covered the kindest heart, the noblest nature that man could [23]
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