Brooklyn Technical High School - Blueprint Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

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Down But Not Out by AXELL PEDERSEN, 88 llluslraled by Arthur Berlin, 8l0 Ya feel as if ya'd like the woild la end, Yer pretty sure ya haven't got a friend, Ya say, Dis woild's bin pretty mean ta me, I betcha she'd be sorry if dey found me in da sea. Ya knock around the alleys, yer dog yer only pal, But no matter what ya do yer thinkin' of that gal, Ya sit around and kinda wish that ya was sorta dead, Cause all ya've had is trouble since ye met that df ---- rn red head. Was fer her ya bought dat locket, So she'd wear it--in her pocket. It was her ya tried to croon ta, Took for walks and showed da moon ta. Was to her ya tole dose lies, 'Cause a her ya sighed dem sighs. Den what did she go and do, Leave ya Hat so's ya'd feel blue. It breaks yer heart when foist ya find dat dames can he untroo, But don't worry 'bout it buddy---cases are that ya'll pull throo d t au can have fer free -- Now dere's a message to dis poem a y I writ dese lines to tell ya dat, Dere's more fish in da sea. K' 3 f ii? - g XNYQW Z 5 5 ki i i i . ' fi ix N 6 llllllll Q lm X 3 lily ry, lll NK k XXX li i

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An enemy, he observes. I must kill him. Painfully he draws forth his revol- ver. He lifts his unsteady arm, takes aim, summons all his remaining strength, pulls the trigger, and falls exhausted. A few weeks later, in a small tavern, a group of men surround a drunken soldier, proudly displaying a military medal. I have deserved this token of appreci- ation, he boasts. Single-handed and wounded, I captured a machine gun nest, and with their own gun I annihilated several score of the enemy. You are indeed a brave man, ex- claims one of the spectators, What is that you hold in your hand? Oh, this? It is a pardon granted me for my services by the chief of staff. What was the crime of which you were pardoned ? The soldier hoarsely whispered, I killed a man. After the Rain fConlinued from page 16l a fevered brow. A deep peace stole over him, quieting the riotous tumult that had raged within him. He smiled. He laughed! It was over. It was over! He turned down the road whence he had come, his mission uncompleted- thank God! The man he had set out to kill was to live. He must have been mad to think of killing anyone. As he walked down the road, he looked about him and saw the world through new eyes-as a man who had been blind all his life would see it-should he suddenly re- gain his sight. The mud no longer bogged him down, it buoyed him up, made the 20 road under his feet softer. He was changed. He felt it within himself. He was changed! He walked on. Beggars throughout the world may seem the same, but if you have ever travelled in southern England, through those typical pastoral villages that property speculators love to call quaint, you may have met a beggar who, at a second glance, seems greatly, greatly removed from the ordinary beggar. His clothes are ragged, or greatly patched, his face is unshaven, and in his hand is to be found the universal begging cup. There is nothing about his outward appearance, except his neatness, to distin- guish him from the common run of beg- gars, but still there is a difference-a difference you can actually feel. He is a very humble sort of a person. I don't mean the sniveling kind of humbleness usually associated with beggars, but something finer-something which makes you say to yourself, Here is a better man than I- despite his ragged clothes and unkempt beard. Home Port My ship has found her journey's end, Her keel's upon the ground, Each oaken timber squeezed of blood, Her breast the rats have found. Her towering masts and swinging spars That held her youthful life Have felt the mighty trade winds cut Them like a keen-edged knife. It's but a day from yesteryear, Her wheel was in my hand, The sea has laid her tender form Upon the foam beached sand. by PETER OAKLAND, 85

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Dark Waters Tlme old gent walked slowly along the narrow pedestrian path on the bridge. There was a thick misty fog rolling in from the ocean which added to the misery of the cold drizzle that had been fal- ling for the last two days. He walk- ed straight ahead with his head low- ered slightly, the edges of his bushy, walrus - like mus- tache peering over his upturned collar and the brim of his battered hat turned down to ward off the rain. In the thick mists of the fog, the old gent faintly saw the figure of a man poised on the bridge railing. With an en- ergy surprisingly athletic for an old man, he leaped up and firmly held the startled man. Slowly he stepped down from the railing. Why don't you mind your own business? asked the would-be suicide in a 22 by ALFRED MELIERE, 73 Illustrated by joseph Whitehead, 715 ' n I l l quavering voice. Because, drawl- ed the intruder, I don't like to see a young fellow make a mistake. That's all. What do you know about it? bellowed the stranger. Make a mistake! That's a laugh. My wife has been sick for the last six months, needsanoperation, an expensive op- eration, and I tried to make enough money on the market to get that operation for her. But the stocks I bought were worthless. I'm a pauper and my wife will probably die when she finds out about it. Well, answered the old gent, I reckon that if anything could kill her, it would be hearing that your body had been hauled out of the river. That w0uldn't be the way to solve your problem. You have to stay and face the facts bravely and