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

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Alias Santa Claus Perhaps parents feel that it is their duty to impress upon their children belief in such mythical figures as Santa Claus and the Easter Rabbit. How- ever, it is my firm conviction that they should not try to continue such fiction after the child has passed the age of ready credulity. Otherwise, dis- illusionment is apt to come to the child with a sudden shock, destroying temporarily his faith in the human race in general, and parents in particular. At least that is what happened in my particular case. Ever since I could remember, I had believe in the existence of a Santa Claus. And so, when I was told that I might accompany my mother on one of those mysterious shopping trips from which we always returned laden with enticing bundles, and that I should actually see Santa, speak to him, perhaps sit on his knee, I could think of nothing else. My mind was utterly unprepared for the enlightenment which was to come. I walked out of the door that morning as happy as I could be. In! fifteen minutes my peace of mind was completely upset. We had passed one Santa Claus after another-seven in all-who were dressed exactly alike and who were not at all as I had pictured him. It was the number of them that amazed me. I had never entertained the idea that there might be more than one Santa Claus. When I gathered courage to ask for an explanation of this-my mother ignored completely this phenomenon of the multiplying Santa Claus-I was secretly hoping against hope that a satisfactory answer might be forthcoming. With appalling indifference, my mother explained that these were men dressed like Santa Claus-not the magic, mysterious Santa of my imagination, but merely ordinary men disguised like him. Ignorant of how her words were cutting me, she continued to explain that Santa Claus stayed at the North Pole, and that nobody ever saw him. My grief was complete, I didn't care what happened, where we went, what we did. I had lived for days in anticipation of seeing the magic man of my dreams-and now the whole framework of my dream castle had fallen. Strange to say, my castle was rebuilt on a more solid foundation by one of those who had helped tear it down-one of the False Santas. I had been left with him in a large store while my mother went about her shopping. He seemed to sense my unhappiness and began to question me skilfully. Soon I was pouring out to him the whole story of my grief. When I had finished, he thought a while and then gently explained that there is no actual Santa Claus, but that he is merely a symbol for the spirit of Christmas. As he spoke, there was no pain of disillusionmentg rather, the words seemed to lift a great weight from my chest. His explanation was more beautiful than the idea of an actual Santa Claus. I was able to build once more my dream castle, in which dwelt not the former Santa Claus of my imagination, but the new Santa, the symbol of the Christmas spirit. Robert Tcllier. 110

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O youthful poet, whither coursed thy thoughts? Didst ponder o'er the earth and man and God? Or man his faults and sins and darkened life Through which in misery he blindly gropes? The jealous hate-torn world and all its vice? Or on the utter hopelessness of life? The joys of life, delusions are they all Or drugs that cloud the mind and blunt the sense To stern reality? Or didst thou wonder whence the Cosmos came And seek the secret of Almighty God? Or God's existence even challenged thou? Perhaps didst think about the soul of men, Of life when it has flowed into the sea? O youth, thine eyes are sad, yet they reflect That thou hast penetrated far beyond The veil that parts this from another world. Thine arms to I-Ieav'n are raised, the only stir Since thou beganst thy fatal vigil long. O youth, thy soul is fleeting through the airg Thy body trembling pleads for its return! Into the night thy soul hath disappeared, Upon the earth in sorrow waits thy fleshg For dead, O noble poet, thou art dead! Ah youth, the favored one whose lot it was To see the Great Unseen, to learn the Unknown! But We, to whom thou never canst return To sing in epic great of what thou sawst, Must through the darkness make our way untold. Fore'er our hearts will seek but ne'er will find What thou, O poet, in thy vigil found. And thus in ignorance we come and go, Our wretched spirits ne'er to find repose. Next morning tribesmen riding toward the north Upon a desert rock their poet saw. His arms were raised to I-Ieav'n in supplianceg His face was calmg his eyes appeared to seeg But lifeless was his frame, so cold and still. In sorrow they his body laid away Beneath Arabia's ever-shifting dunes. Onver Mabadeen. 1 09

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Solilioquy On A Bank We stand on the bank of a pool of black waters, deep and unfathomable. A gold moon brightens the shimmering surface with weird rays-bright spots of our lives to come. Along the edge branches of weeping willows trail in the waters-symbols of our tears, the broken reeds of disappointment and regret. They cast shadows, the heartaches and the pains. Still there are golden rays that flicker through and wipe the tears away! The air about the pool is scented with flowersg some will live and blossom in beauty, and some will wither and die in despair. Across the meadows we hear hauntingly sweet music. It is a sound like a breeze across the waters carrying the tones of an orchestra. The night above is our only shelter, and the stars God's lantern to our stumbling feet. Gladys Crolbers CXEJQZB The Forest Trail O Restless Trail, stay awhile and speak with me- Tell me of the wonders that you see, Things your silent tongue could tell- If you would: Tell me of the huntsman, Who, with his hounds Baying at the scent of the fox, Wanders along thy breast. Tell me of the children, Who stay their dancing feet To gather their blossoms That bloom close beside you- As children nestle to their mother. Tell me of the boy and girl Who whispering shy words of love, Stroll along thy brink. And perhaps, darker things you've seen- The hunted criminal fleeing from the law. Or, mayhap, in the earlier days, An Indian massacre, How many secrets do you hold- Dark as well as fair- That mortal ear shall never hear? O Wanderer of the Woodland, stay. But I plead in vain- The Forest Trail winds on. Marjorie Harris 111