Lincoln High School - Quill Yearbook (Jersey City, NJ)

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Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? What's that? I looked to my brother for an answer. You see I was just four years old, and he was the big protector. The cause of my fright was the piercing call of a siren that rent the crisp air. It was a psychological moment for me, for I had just returned from an afternoon at the zoo. For a moment I was frozen with a gripping fear. The penetrating quality of that painful shriek of the siren possessed me with a sudden agony. It didn't help matters any for my brother to exclaim: The animals in the zoo have broken loose. Run! Get into the house. The big bad wolf will get you! I cannot describe my movements, but I recall that my anguish was suddenly transferred to all the queer shadows of the deepening dusk in the twilight shades. I saw images of monsters about to devour me. I recall, too, how the door refused to open and my passage to safety seemed blocked for ages. But, after' helter-skelter stum.bling and running, I got inside, trembling with terror. When my brother came in to supper he didn't help matters any by gloating over his victory. He insisted that wolves would eat little children who were still out at dusk. I gulped down my supper and went to bed. I felt a large lump in my stomach. I shut my eyes tightly and covered my ears. One evening soon afterwards, my family was returning from a visit. Since my bedtime was near, I anxiously and earnestly advised my father to drive faster. Suddenly I heard the siren! In my excitement I sobbed and shrank back in fear. When my mother inquired what was the matter with me, I looked up, surprised that she did not know. They have broken out of the zoo again, I cried. She regarded me in utter amazement. just about that time we rounded a corner, and a large factory came into view. Men and women came flooding out of the open gates. I understood. It was the factory whistle. Who's afraid of the big bad wolf? Can it be that we are just children? Can it be that the ominous rumblings and the piercing cries of alarm that rend the air these days are no more than the normal sounds of a great industrial order closing in the twilight of one age only to open its doors again to a waiting public on the morrow? Perhaps we have only slept a night away after all. Perhaps we shall soon all be privileged to return to work again, and all our fears shall be dispelled in the light of a new day. Arlbur Margufics. 100

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Red Letter Day Last week I dropped into Mike's place, only to find it empty. Mike was polishing some glasses in front of a large mirror.+ As I entered, he looked up and grinned. Howdy,', he said softly, the boys are over at the Garden watching Baer and Schmeling mix it up. I returned his greeting and lounged against the bar. Mike filled the glasses and we drank a toast to Baer. The old bartender's eyes softened as we did. Now I knew the real Mike. In his eyes I could read his love for a strong body and his admiration for the husky Californian. He edged closer to me. Kid, he said, did I ever tell you of the time I was almost world champion? No, Mike, I replied, let's hear it.', After bracing himself wich another drink, Mike began: Well, all I know about boxing was taught to me by my father. You see, I never knew then what he did for a living. He told me that he worked in the Pennsylvania mines. Dad was a burly brute of a man, standing six feet three inches and tipping the scales at two hundred and thirteen pounds. Every month or so he come home with a battered face. He explained that the men under him were trying to form a union and that riots were breaking out. I was very much interested in the ring and persuaded Dad to train me. My record was pretty good, showing several bouts by knockouts and no losses. Upon Dad's suggestion, I adopted the use of red stationery for writing my challenges to other prominent fighters. Among the boxers I had hopes of meeting Bert Douglas. No one knew much about him as he always entered the ring masked. Douglas was the leading contender for the heavyweight title, then held by Dempsey. However, he dropped out of active combat and the two never met. Dad trained me carefully for the ight with King, who had been knocked out by Douglas two months before. King was a husky fellow without an undeveloped muscle in his body. I was in the pink of condition and every mucles rippled under my bronze skin. Dad couldn't attend the match and' I sure missed his company and advice. The first five rounds went along smoothly as each of us was trying to see what the other had. The next five rounds were spent in bursts of speed. The fans shouted themselves hoarse. My body slowly grew red under the constant mauling. Only the sight of my opponent's bruised and puffed out face kept me going through the eleventh and twelfth. When the bell rang, King sprang from his corner almost over into mine. I had just regained my balance when he slashed a left jab into my face. Expertly shoving his left lead aside, I sent in a right hand cross counter to his head. We cautiously backed away and sparred for a few moments. King slammed over a left hand jolt to my body and received a right to his chin. 101