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Page 64 text:
Lord, help me live a gentle life,
One free from evil's might.
Lend courage through the bitter strife
And peace throughout the night.
If days are long with endless work,
As some are sure to be,
Grant patience, Lord, that will not shirk
The tasks assigned to me.
Though rough the climb up life's high mount
And hard the blows that fall,
Send strength from thy oe'r-flowing fount
That I may bear them all.
Then when the end is near at hand,
My only prayer shall be,
That, though not great or rich or grand,
My soul will dwell with thee.
Honorable Mention -- Class of 194-7.
Can You Hear Me, American?
Can you hear my anguished cry struggling to pierce the clouds of oppression?
I am the Greek youth -H dulled, embittered, beaten by war. I cannot tell the world
of my hopes, my dreams of liberty, I cannot stand erect to meet what lies before
me, I cannot bow before a God I do not know, for I have- been damned to a
ruthless submission in which I lead an animal-like existence. Only the brain and
soul of me are comparatively free to wander in the land of wonder and doubt. I
have heard that somewhere there is a land that offers peace. Although my mind
is brimming with perplexity and confusion, I cry to you for help. Can you hear
Can you hear my eager plea striving to rise above the din of battle? I arn
the Chinese youth-hardened, saddened, orphaned by war. For endless years
I have wearily trudged along the winding roads of my country, seeking and never
finding the welcome warmth of security. Victim of needs - knowing hunger never
satisfied, thirst never quenchedh I look toward the future with fear and appre-
hension. I know of you, American, your skillful warfare, efficient potency, ad-
vanced medicines playing minor but important parts in our eventual victory. My
ancestors called you a white god, I know of you as an aid, an ally. If you but
touch my country with a finger of relief, we can frugally bring about widespread
Page 63 text:
to its loyal inhabitants. All types and kinds of people passed over the bridge.
Young and old, rich and poor, lonely and contented. Many of them found rest
and renewed hope in the church just the other side of the bridge. It was no special
kind of church. Catholic, Protestant, and Jew alike could find refuge within its
sheltering walls. Tonight it lifted its delicate spires through the mist of snow as
though giving praise to the Almighty.
The bridge was dark and, at first glance, looked deserted. But, no, a boy
was standing at the railing alone. He had his shoulders hunched and the collar
of his shabby coated turned up against the biting wind. He was very young, not
more than seventeen, but his face was hard and his mouth was set in a stubborn
line. He stood there staring at the wind-whipped maelstrom below him and a
slight tremor passed through his body. In its muddy turmoil he could see the
stars refiected like splashes of silver on liquid ebony. It looked very deep as it
rushed on its never ending way. Very deep.
He leaned a little farther over the edge and stared fascinated. This would be
an easy way out. No pain, just the blessed sense of deep rest. Down there, there
could be no wrong side of the tracks, no condemned nationalities. He could do
it. Then let them talk 5 he wouldnit care 3 he wouldn't even hear.
As he gripped the rail with the sudden decision of youth, a hand fell on his
shoulder and he wheeled around.
He faced a small, rather tattered man with a care-worn countenance and a
kindly smile. His eyes were a deep, intense blue, almost like the sky, and his look
"Don,t do it, son." He spoke quietly.
."Why not?" the boy flung at him savagely. "What business is it of yours?"
His hands clasped the railing behind him and his whole being was shaken.
"It is my business though, son. Perhaps you won't understand now, but you
will later on. Life isn't so bad when you look at the beautiful side. Look at the
sky. A vast expanse of glory encrusted with sparkling crystals, each one separate
and in a different shape. Think it over, son. Give life another chance."
The boy turned around and lifted his face to heaven, letting the cool snow
caress his cheeks and lift his spirits. When he turned, the little old man was
gone. Then the great bell in the church tower rang, and a mad exhilaration filled
his heart. He folded his hands and lifted closed eyes to the stars while all around
him bells seemed to ring, lifting his humble prayer to an understanding Father.
From the church tower the old sexton, with eyes like the sky, watched the
boy walk away with new confidence in his step, new faith in his heart.
Anne Marie Flynn
First Prize - Class of 1948.
Page 65 text:
benefit. Your national wealth is our promise of liberation. Although my mein
is stoic, I send a silent plea. Can you hear me, American?
Can you hear my anxious voice echoing across the ocean of differences which
separate us? I am the English youth-frightened, retarded, bent by war. My
meager existence has become so habitual that I am appalled by your copiousness.
I not only admire, but also envy your ingenuous, egotistic patriotism 5 it is character-
istic of the great, altruistic nation which you are. When I pause to compare our
respective homelands, I realize the prime need of brotherhood and cooperation
between us. This is being accomplished by our executives g nevertheless, there is a
lack of complete understanding between the citizens of your country and mine.
The future holds a better promise of durable peace if the English speaking peoples
of the world meet on grounds of unity. Although my message is shaddwed, it is
direct. Can you hear me, American? I. '
june Sullivan Q I' 1 I X
First Prize- e1asSt0fR,1l946Q . g
2 , s-, Jw f
. 1, 1 f
The forest was just beginning to stir. Thin wisps of mist veiled the treetops.
The pungent smell of pine was everywhere. Suddenly, a hare poked his pink nose
out of the brush and sniffed the morning air. N o, there was no danger. He hopped
out into the sunlight and stood basking in its warmth. Then, giving a playful
twitch to his ears, he went off in search of breakfast.
Amid the branches of an oak came the song of a finch welcoming the new day.
The weasel crept noiselessly out from behind a fern and darted down one of his
narrow trails. Soon an owl Hew through the air and came to rest on the branch of
a large pine. He had been hunting all night. It would be good to sleep now.
Below him, two pheasants advanced cautiously, their sleek feathers glistening in
the sun. Far off in the distance, the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker echoed and rc-
echoed through the trees. The bees droned busily as they gathered nectar. The
ferns swayed slightly in the breeze. High above, fluffy clouds sailed past, their
whiteness accented by the deep blue of the sky.
Suddenly, the shrill cry of blackbirds shattered the stillness. There was a loud
whir of wings as they circled higher and higher in the air. Almost without sound
the fox slunk through the bushes. The tip of his bushy tail swayed gently to and
fro, betraying his agitation. His red eyes burned. Would he ever be able to roam
the forest without those black marauders screeching the way they did? How he
hated them! They warned his prey for miles around of his presence. Slowly he
continued on his way until the green foliage completely enveloped him. The forest
was fully awake now. The new day had begun.
Honorable Mention-Class of 1947.
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