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

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trees, beautifully touched by the brush of the Great Artist. It was truly a remarkable scene ..... Suddenly one of the witches, in the course of her mothlike Hitting about, brushed against me. Turning to get a close look at the strange creature, I saw, to my infinite surprise, a definitely masculine, young face. I heard him murmur a polite Sorry and then he was gone. Abashed, I turned once again to the beautiful landscape, but lo! it was not there. A curtain of plate glass had fallen between me and my vision, leaving only the wizened ngure of a witch and a mysterious cauldron-empty! William Davidson. The Joys of Early Rising There is nothing that can compare with that most enjoyable of all experiences, early morning rising. The lovely crisp air that greets you as you wake can be likened only to a dip in the Arctic. As you come to, a feeling of eagerness pervades you, you want to bound right out of bed. Ah, no! That would never do. You might arouse some one by mistake, and so you slide reluctantly back under the blankets. But Early to bed, early to rise is one of your favorite maxims, and so regardless, you eagerly leap out of bed. The shock of the cold floor on your bare feet makes you reel, but you recover quickly, hurry into your clothes and rush for your breakfast. By the way, an added advantage of this experience is the extra time one then has for further study. One gets more than one thrill from an early morning dabble in commercial law and not a little pleasure in reviewf ing the Spanish American War. Ah, yes, indeed, as Sturcke would say. However, this joy is somewhat lessened when you discover the milkman is late, the toaster is on the L'fritz, and the cereal pot is burned dry. And so you skip blithely off to school with an empty stomach, consoling yourself with the thought that you may lose half a pound. As you meander along the Boulevard, you notice a ducky little clock in a barber shop window which says 7 :5 5. Tearing down Emory Street and onto Monticello Avenue, you see another clock, 7:45 and you slow down, meanwhile murmuring prayers of thanksgiving. Although there is an ominous quiet on Brinkerhoff Street, the memory of that fruitfstore clock is still in your mind, so you stroll along musing on the cares of the world, and conjecturing whether or not you'l1 get on the credit roll next month. Suddenly you realize that the street is deserted, and you slip into an imitation of Clancy coming down the home stretch. Alack and Alaska, just as you go galloping into the corridor, the familiar little bell goes tinkle, tinkle, while you turn to keep an unexpected appointment with Mr. J. Slane. Beware the ides of the clock! 4 Edith Cowml

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mg., All evening the two were together. The prince gloated over the fact that the person in the prettiest costume was with him and was reciprocating his attentiveness. No doubt about it, the pair did make a stunning couple, drawing the eyes of everyone. They certainly were colorful, at least. Sally didn't talk much, for, she explained, she had a frog in her throat, which made her hoarse. However, it pleased his vanity to do the talking for both of them. As for dancing, he avoided it whenever possible, for the heretofore featherweight, Sally, seemed to be suddenly unaccountably heavy on her feet, which made her quite clumsy to lead around. Perhaps the frog had affected her legs, too. wk wk ek wk sc Twelve o'clock! Everyone unmask! shouted the very gypsy to whom Sam's princess had been speaking earlier in the evening. The gypsy pulled off a black mask. With a sudden dreadful premonition of what was coming next, Sam turned slowly, hesitantly, to the companion at his side, and in a realization as terrible as a horrible nightmare, found himself staring into the grinning, half ashamed face of Bob Evers, his best pal. Mildred Singer. I-Iallowe'en Fantasy As I stopped before the department store window, peering curiously into the eerie gloom within, my breath was taken away. There, lifesize, sat the wizened Hgure of a witch bending over a boiling cauldron. A strange feeling possessed me. My gaze was drawn irresistibly toward the contents of the huge receptacle. I was torn between reality and imagination. My eyes seemed to perceive a boiling, pitchfblack concoction in the cauldron while my conscious sense told me there was nothing there. The mixture seethed-seethed. A vapor arose from it. It swirled toward me. It lifted me from my feet. I was whirred through the boundless reaches of the atmof sphere ..... I know not how I got there, but I found myself floating over a field, precariously perched on a witch's broom. All around me the air was spotted with blackfcloaked figures wearing tall, pointed hats, and, like me, employing brooms for their aerial mounts. As they came closer, I recognized them as those strange creatures, the witches, that appear mysteriously a few days before Hallowe'en, and then just as mysteriously vanish on November the first. They whirred about, literally choking the atmosphere, yet I could still see the magnificent, autumnftouched scene below me. Here and there, rearing up like golden skyscrapers from amid the tarnished grass, stood sheaves of grain, flanked by huge, moon-faced pumpkins that nestled at their bases. In the distance, across a whitewashed fence, I could see a grove of

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Scraps of Life p She decided that she could not stand it any longer. It was too much to ask of any wife. She had told Rusty before that she would leave him, but this time she meant it. Her mind was quite made up. She would pack her trunks now and leave as soon after that as possible. Upstairs in her room, she feverishly threw clothes into two large suit' cases, afraid to allow her mind to dwell for even a moment on the drastic step she was contemplating. Her love for Rusty she relegated to the back of her mind: she was modern-her love for her husband did not necessarily compel her to live with him, when he was causing her so much unhappiness. No, she would be calm about it all. If he had ceased to have a regard for her, if-but no, she would be calm and poised. Clothes all packed, she must now get together her personal things: books, letters, diary, scrapfbooks. How many of the scrapfbooks had accumf ulated! Her mind clung desperately to these trivial things in an effort to alleviate the alarming pain in her heart. Idly she turned pages, scarcely noting what she saw. An old, old book whose original color must have been reddbut which was now a faded brownishfpink-caught her attention. Frowningly she picked it up, wondering what it contained. Across the front page was written in a delicate girlish penmanship, My Souvenirs-Evelyn Celia Petrie. Age 16. Puzzled, she turned the next page. Pasted on it was a fragile piece of pink chiffon, with the neat heading above it: 'LReminder of My First Prom. The frown disappeared from her brow as she gave an odd choked little laugh. What a memory that brought! She smiled to think that, paradoxical as it might sound, she had not attended her First Prom. Rusty had called for her that night, uncomfortably conscious that this was the Hrst time he was taking Evelyn out. His speechless and dumb adoration, when he had beheld her dressed in a cloud of pink chiffon with tiny forgetfmefnots nestling at her waist, had made her feel flatteringly grownfup and sophisticated. QLittle chance she had for feeling flattered now, she reflected bitterly. His neglect and indifference, indeed, was the cause of all her unhappiness., Gazing once more at the little scrap of chiffon, she let her thoughts go back to that night. Rather primly they had walked to the bus, feeling strangely distant for two who had grown up together. As they rode to the school, her fancies had taken flight into the beautiful realm of make' believe, while she pictured gallant princes kissing her hand and vowing that she was the fairest flower God had made. Suddenly, she had been rudely thrust from her imagined throne by an all too real happening. Rusty, in getting up to ring the bell, had unwit-