Lincoln High School - Lincolnian Yearbook (Kansas City, MO)

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THE LINCOLNIAN 27 bring up a new and better humanity our augury is : “Come peace ! Not like a mourner bowed STEERING COMMITTEE OF LINCOLN HIGH SCHOOL. It is a significant fact that the citizens of this community are becoming so inter- ested in Lincoln High School and in every movement for the betterment of its work that a body of our most representative men, have been willing to second the ef- forts of our principal and organized them- selves into what is known as a Steering Committee. This committee has started its work with zest and enthusiasm, and has already en- For honor lost and dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people proud With eyes that tell of triumphs tasted.” EMMETT F. GLEED. deared itself to every boy and girl con- nected with the school. Two months ago they assumed the responsibility of a thou- sand dollars, which sum was needed to purchase uniforms for our cadets. As a result, all our boys are now in uniform, and the inspiring spectacle they present when on parade must make every member of that committee feel that their sacrifice of time and funds was justified. Three cheers for the men who have be- gun to steer with so masterful a hand! Rah! Rah! Rah! Sis-boom-bah, Steering Committee. Rah ! Rah ! Rah ! A BIG TIN CAN. A FARODY. (With apologies to Robert Burns.) O, my Ford’s like a big tin can, That’s newly made in June; O, my Ford’s like the big brass band That’s played so out of tune. As slow art thou, my rocky Ford, So deep in debt am I, That I will hate thee still, my Ford, Till a ’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Ford, And your tires melt wi’ the sun ; I will hate thee still, my rocky Ford, As long as thou shalt run. And fare thee weel, my rocky Ford, And fare thee weel, awhile; For I will not come back, you junk, Tho’ it were just half a mile. BUNKER BEAN, T 6. There’s a little bit of bad in every good little Ford They’re not to blame, Every Ford must bounce a little bit, Because they’re all the same; I know a one-lung fliver That shakes like a nervous liver. There’s a little bit of bad in every good little Ford, They’re all the same. BUNKER BEAN, T6. I’ve served the Lincolnian for many a year With the class of nineteen-sixteen, Some have sailed far away, but I’ve one year to stay, So stop, look and listen, I’m still Bunk- er Bean. BUNKER BEAN, T6.

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26 THE LINCOLNIAN in g of the slaves could be accomplished in no other way. Who will say the strug- gle was not worth it? Will the Russian people call this a useless war when in the twinkling of an eye it has brought about reforms which in their optimistic mo- ments the people could hardly conceive possible in less than a generation? What else but this war could have toppled from his throne a monarch who considered himself their ruler by the “grace of God” and “divine right?” Could have de- livered the Jews from an age old oppres- sion more frightful than that of the Ameri- can Negro? What else could have abol- ished grog from England, vodka from Rus- sia and absinthe from France, those mighty millstones around the neck of a nation? Even the much fought suffrage question has come within the domain of practical politics to a greater degree and in a far more agreeable manner than the most ardent suffragette leaders could have dared anticipate before August, 1914. Not in England alone, but in all the coun- tries, women have done and are doing so much in so many ways that are useful and vital that their claims not only can not in future be put aside, but are even now being consolidated and made sure of taking a suitable place in the future energies of a nation’s life. And the war will be worth much to human beings in many other ways when Time, the great Healer, allows of balanced reflection and calm introspection of events that today we can only observe in part and in their most terrible aspects. How many prejudices and anacronistic ideas that have grown into empty habits of mind are in the course of being shat- tered and crumbled up as obsolete? Which one of them can ever again lay stress on the distinction of race and race, of color an 1 color, of religion and religion, when F. c and West, North and South, nation and nation, colony and motherland, have fought, ffered and sacrificed side by side for the common cause? In proportion as Eastern nation or African colonies have given of their best to assist the mother country with the same liberality and loy- alty with which Canadians, Australians and New Zealanders, who are closer to them by race, have come forward to help in every way, so have they earned the right to every consideration and a debt of grati- tude will entitle them to fair treatment in all that may constitute their legitimate aspirations in the future, and may this also be true of the Negro. His unswerv- ing loyalty to the country of his birth with the memory of wrongs, oppressions and injustices heavy upon him, bespeak a nature richly endowed with high ideals, and we can not doubt that out of this war will come acknowledgements and ap- preciation which shall be manifested in justice and equity for us. Above all this struggle, this present hor- ribele intliccion of pain, loss, anguish and death on millions of people and their fami- lies, the stout hope must grow up in us that this great upheaval will renew all standards of life and ideas of what fun- damental society and national existence are based upon ; that it must and will lead to a simpler condition of existence and a more natural and less complex way of living, and that out of the burning fire of these present trials humanity as a whole will emerge chastened and purified and readier in the calm that follows storm to hear the still small voice of the Spirit. It is early to foreshadow the conclusion or the outcome of this world-wide war. but calamity, nor trial ever comes with- out producing ultimate good and serving the purpose of the All-Wise. Mighty powers are at work in the world; who can stay them? God’s word has gone forth and it shall not return to him void. A new comprehension of the Christian spirit, a new reverence for hu- manity, a new feeling of brotherhood, and of all men’s relations to the common Fath- er — this is among the signs of our times. We see it. Can we not feel it? Society, silently pervaded by this, is to change its aspect of universal warfare for peace. The power of selfishness, all grasping and seemingly invincible, is to yield to this divine energy. The song of angels — “On earth peace,” will not always sound as fic- tion, for what is the highest secret of vic- tory and peace? “To will what God wills, and strike a league with destiny.” Much will have to be rebuilt when the war is over; much thought out again in the light of all that has happened. And new gen- erations will profit by the lessons learned and the sacrifices made and the lives laid down by those of the present day. To those whose business it is to bear and

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28 THE LINCOLNIAN RETROSPECTION T When the wild winds swept from the ster- ile north, Pouring all of their long-held violence forth, ’Tis there that I can have my soul’s de- light Musing before I go to bed at night. Thinking of days and times in the past Before my hair was whitened by the blast Of many winters ; and my soul was free As any wand’ring wind on land or sea, As free as any being of the air, Living on high where all is of the fair. The bright red flames, which make one feel so good, Burn bright and brighter, calling for more wood ; The gloomy shadows flicker on the walls, The broken branch against the gable falls, E’er rousing one from out his reverie As a strong wind rouses a placid sea; The dozing cat becomes more still and then I feel lonely and more lonely within. Fain would I lift me from this humble strand And view again a land that was my land In the fair days of the long, long ago, Ah, if I might in retrospection show The glories and the beauties of that shore, Which lies within the shadowy days of yore. I soon become a little boy again Wand’ring o’er vale and hill. In the small glen Playing the parts of warriors gone long since Into a clime to gain their recompense. Battling against the enemy with huge swords Fashioned from father’s brandnew fenc- ing boards ; Nor giving o’er, when night pursuing day, Makes it so dark no light is left for play; Striving to win the field at any cost, Until my mother, thinking I am lost, Comes with wild cries pf direful punish- ment, Then the combatting forces break — con- tent. Each disappearing in the shades of night, I’m left alone to face my awful doom; Bracing myself, but bent by the full might Of mother’s potent hand, I’m guarded home. Brought home to suffer agony — brought home To be shut in a dark imp-haunte,d room, Which fills my soul with preternatural fears, Which cause my eyes to inundate with tears. O if I might escape this chamber bare! O how I feel the rising of each hair ! You demons, wafting them adown the air, Drive me into the shadows of despair ! And now I see the demon known as Death, Descending to bereave me .of my breath; And now I see the devil with his host, Ascending from the regions of the lost. 0 ruler of the clime of Gloominess, Canst thou list to the moanings of the soul? Why dost thou stand thy heart o’ercome with bliss, While I sink into regions bleak and cold? 1 start out of my chair, my hair on ends, Haunted by the wild spectre of my sins ; And find my hand too near the angry stove, Which tells me in its sign language to move. The dozing cat awakened by my cry, Stretching himself, lets out a lifeless sigh; Seeing his master in a fit of pain, He looks askant and falls asleep again. There stands the little school house on the hill, Hard by bubbles a limpid mountain rill; O’er-shadowing stream and hut a giant oak Spreads its huge branches, while a ver- dant cloak Of deepest green arrays the mighty king And timid song birds light thereon to sing. The sylvan logs, plastered with yellow clay, Bake in the rays of the great prince of day ; The regal master stands within the door Cudgel in hand, while rustic swains im- plore