Central High School - Cog N Pen Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

Page 17 text:

THINGS [Being a space filled with “Things.” А depart- ment devoted to anything new and original in the world of art, special attention being given to the so- called thoroughly at present. ] THE MORNING AFTER By CHESTER MOCKRIDGE HAD hardly fallen asleep when my | bell rang furiously. I jumped out of a bed qucikly and opened the door. ? E No one was there! Upon reflection, DSA however, this did not seem extraordinary. Probably the prank of the occupant of another of the many bachelor apartments on our floor, I thought. But the thing haunted my mind as I lay in bed, and I could not sleep. A warm breath of air had swept my cheeks as I had opened the door. Although my mind was wide awake, I could not figure the thing out. The longer I thought, the more ghostly was the impression left on my mind. Why had I been drink- ing? I wished that Jack would come. I tried to sleep. But it was not for long. I felt someone staring at me——a stare that boded evil, and yet I was afraid to look. The gaze of the eyes was ceaseless—it pierced through my closed eyelids and burned into mv brain. I began to picture the eyes—they must be very large— large, red, blood-shot eyes, yet with a greenish hue. I sat up suddenly and peered into the darkness. There they were, just as I had pictured them in my imagination! Red and blood-shot, yet with a green- ish hue—more like the glow of phosphorus than a human being's eyes. I cried out, but my cry was a squeak, the stifled shriek of a choking person. Why did not Jack come? The eyes disappeared for an instant, only to reap- pear a little nearer to me. They faded again. When I next saw them, they were still nearer. Again and again this happened, until they were within a few feet of my head. How long would this keep up? How long could a human being stand it? Then they spoke. You! boomed out a deep voice from below the ghostly halos. “You are on the threshold of fortune! But you'll pass the opportunity by! I am—— But the eyes did not disclose their secret. Instead, they disappeared again. Then again they burned in the darkness, and still nearer. new art which is permeating literature so E 2d - Fa I quivered like a leaf in the chill November wind. [nstinctively I reached under my pillow, drew out my revolver, and fired. The eyes disappeared, but I fired again were they had been. I heard a low moan, and something fell on my feet. It sent murderous chills up and down my spine. Then the eyes lit up again. They were at the foot of my bed, and were rapidly glazing with the sheen of death. “Fool!” killed me! earth” the eyes slowly burned out. boomed the voice. Fool, you have I die, but you shall live death on And as the voice trailed off into a moan. I swooned to sleep. I awoke with a blinding sun beaming in my room I sickened at the sight that met my eyes. On Ше bed were dozens of spots of blood, and half a dozen spots where puddles of blood had sunk into the bed clothes like water into the earth. A blood-stained sheet lay like a shroud over the end of the bed. And on the floor, dressed in evening clothes, lay Jack, smeared with blood, his body crumpled up, with a sheet partly wound about him. A VERY GOOD THING [Being something which was given in at the Rat Hole, though we do not know the author. At least it is good enough to print. ] LOOK PLEASANT We cannot, of course, all be handsome, And it’s hard for us all to be good, We are sure now and then to be lonely, And we don’t always do as we should. To be patient is not always easy, To be cheerful is much harder still, But at least we can always be pleasant, If we make up our minds that we will. And it pays every time to be kindly, Although we feel worried and blue. If you smile at the world and look cheerful, The world will soon smile back at you. So try to brace up and look pleasant, No matter how low you are down, Good humor is always contagious, But you banish all friends when you frown.

Page 16 text:

James Warren Gibbs аз a Poet The following poems are from the uncollected writ- ings of the late James Warren Gibbs, whose memory is so fondly cherished by all Centralites who were so fortunate as to know him. “To Arms was pub- lished in The American Issue, with which Mr. Gibbs was connected, while the fragments and Who Can Ве Great? are from his unpublished writings. While Mr. Gibbs left some poetry, he will be better remem- bered for his historical writings, the latest of which went to press just before his death last summer, and which is expected to appear at any time—4 Manual of American History and Civics, (Atkinson, Mentzer Co., New York). This is the same one which he developed at Central, and which is in use here now. FAINT HEART BE STRONG Up, then, nor fear! Gird on thy sword for battle with the wrong! This is thy battlefield forever here— To him who conquers is the victor's song. WHO CAN BE GREAT? A second of time is a little thing, But two eternities to it cling. A speck in space floats this world of man, Y et holds what a place in God's great plan! Though I may not be great, I can be small, And God needs little things most of all. And who is great? Not he whose boast Makes a nation shudder from coast to coast. Who then is great? Not he whose name Is gilded over with golden fame. These may be great; but it must be he Who walks by faith where he cannot see; Who does life's duty as he can With God-like faith in the heart of man. TO ARMS! The cry goes forth like thunder-peal— TO ARMS! Gird quick thine armor on! The foe is worthy of thy steel, His ranks stand thick and strong. “То arms again! Thy broad, fair land Which stands for freedom's mighty power, Betrayed by traitor's kiss and hand, Yields silently each hour. Firm blades of heroes bathed in blood, Firm hearts of heroes staunch and true, Against the strength of wrong have stood When blades and hearts were few. The cry goes forth for men— strong men— Men who no longer dream, but DO! Rings Eastern tower, rings Western glen With cries for me, for you. A man may die that a nation live, A nation its life for a world may give.

Page 18 text:

ONE-NINE-ONE-SEVEN'S HISTORY I walked through the corridor, And stopped one of three, To tell him of my Senior Class The Ancient Historie. He said he was too busy And had no time to hear; But I said, Indeed but twice a year. And so he stood and oped his eyes And looked up to heaven; While I began to tell the tale Of Class One-Nine-One-Seven. Yes, we have all been freshmen, As some of ye are to-day; Such things must all be told And have patiently sailed across the sea, To be called a Senior A. We started on our voyage About two hundred strong ; But most of us got sea-sick, And could not sail along. Some of us fell overboard, Because we could not see How with homework piled up high We'd ever cross the sea. Lessons, lessons everywhere, We wished that we could sink: Lessons, lessons everywhere, And not a chance to think. After a long, long year we sailed As freshies nevermore, And w alking the deck right proudly, Of the good s ship ' : ‘Sophomore.’ And after two more windy years Of wrecks and storms at sea, Came to us an Albatross Known as Geometry. Some deemed it an ill omen And many left the boat; But some of us worked faithfully, The bird kept us afloat. Many a happy day we passed, A jolly crew indeed, And no class could our In any way exceed. Seventeen And we danced along the deck until We were Seniors dignified; W е stopped a For now our goal we spied. a day and be 'gan lo pray For Буе long months we worked, And pleasures all rejected; Never a task we shirked, That others had neglected. Sixty now swimming, АП workers hard are we We've sailed, and worked, ы sailed, [ill now we've crossed the sea. THE ELF KING Who rides there so swiftly through wind and through night ? | Tis father and son from dread Death seeking flight. The son feels about him the father's strong arm, The arm holds him tightly, he feels no alarm. My son, you are hiding your face as in fear. Ah, father, see'st thou—the Elf King draws near. Behold him, the Elf King, with crown and with train.” My son, ’tis a streak of the mist and the гаш.” thou fine boy, come thou with me, Right pretty games will I play there with thee, Rare-colored flowers my meadows do hold, My mother has many а robe wrought of gold. Come, My father, my father, and do you not hear? The Elf King’s whispering things in mine ear.” Rest quiet, my child, the wind makes that sound, The wind as it rustled the leaves on the ground. Wil't come, my fine boy, wil't thou come with me? My daughters shall lovingly wait upon thee, My daughters who lead in the night's merry maze Will rock thee to slumber with song and with lays. My father, my father, and see where 'tis dark, The Elfin King's daughters are passing, oh hark.” My son, my son, oh calm your dismay ; The willows are bending their heads shining gray. “I love thee, dear creature, thy person doth charm, Come! be thou willing, or else I will harm.” My father, my father, oh now I must go, [he Elf King has done me a terrible woe. The father now trembles, he rides as one wild; He holds in his arms the shuddering child ; He reaches the castle, his heart turns to lead; For pale in his arms, the child lies— dead. Translated from the German by ROBERT L. Housman.