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

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Let Us Have Peace If the gentlemen with their armorfplate plants in Pennsylvania and their powder factories in Delaware have their way, in a few years I will be sent out with a tin hat on my head to see if I can get myself converted into one hundred and forty pounds of fertilizer by the action of onefhalf ounce of lead. In more simple language, war is imminent. Public sentiment is at present opposed to armed conflict between nations, but when the propaf ganda presses start rolling and the slogans start to fly, the good old war spirit will leap up and the boys will go tramping off to die for their country. When the recruiting drums start to roll and the patriotic dames give their pep talks, I for one hope to retain my sanity and keep my brains from getting mushed up with some Manchurian mud. The chances are that you, I, and the fellow reading over your shoulder will rush down the street after the band, just begging for a chance to see how cold a piece of steel feels in our anatomy. If this country gets itself into a war, those ablefbodied men that don't volunteer will be drafted. The only chance our generation has to keep from getting the warfshock that the youth of 1917 suffered is to keep the United States out of war. When the papers of the nation get their advances from the munition monarchs and start to inflame the country with a hatred for some foreign power, then is the time for us-this means you-to let the boys in Wash' ington know that we don't like war, we won't iight their wars, and if they value their jobs they had better work like dogs to keep us out of war. It's too late to do this when the insulting notes have been sent and the commisf sary department is buying cardboard shoes and itchy shirts. The time for action has come when you hear the bird with the deadffish expression on his face who's sitting next to you say, Dees Japs are gettin' wise. I tink we oughter go over an' clean 'em up just da way dis guy in de 'News' says. That time is coming soon. It may be tomorrowg it may be now. We must open our eyes. We must act! Unless, of course, we prefer a hunk of shrapnel in the region of the stomach. EMC Weiss. wrt X -QQ X' if- ei-fi:1?Z5?i ? '

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Arctic Night Across the frozen waste three greyfblack shadows crept silently. Eagerly sniffing the air, they crawled upon the crusted snow toward their unsuspectf ing prey. Suddenly the object of their stalk, a huge buck caribou, lifted his antlered head and detected the approaching forms. He turned and fled. His cloven hoofs cut deeply into the snow that supported his pursuers. Slowly he struggled on, kneefdeep in clinging snow. Shrieking their weird cry, the wolves broke into a lope. In horseshoe formation they quickly overtook their prey. The caribou turned, at bay. The smallest of the trio, flushed with the inexperience of youth, rushed full at the cornered animal. The deer reared and struck with sharpfedged hoofs. The snow turned crimson. With a throaty growl another grey form leaped for the deer's flank. As the caribou sank, the third wolf sprang to pierce the deer's jugular. The caribou kicked spasmodically. The two wolves tore at his side. Bright red streamers spread across the white snow. ae wx: as :ie PK Pk wk wk Only the flttest survive. Eric Weiss. New Day Golden sunlight slanted down, covering the lake with a warm glow. Not a breath of air moved to disturb the calm reflections of the overhanging birches. Lazy turtles basked on halffsunken logs. Across every path and clearing stretched long shadows of the motionless trees. A timid little cottonftail hopped gaily across the road, pausing in the underbrush to flick his white powderfpuff. In long, aerial sweeps a gold' inch swung over a field of unbending goldenrod. With a quick dart a drab peewee soundlessly pounced upon an unsuspecting insect. Down the center of the trail a furry little black and white catlike creature calmly paraded, confident of immunity from all attack. Hesitatingly, the leaves began to quiver, as tiny ripples danced across the lake, distorting the sylvan reflections. To left and to right the goldenrod nodded plumed heads. Suddenly the silence was broken. A bugle call rang through the shadowed glens. The camp was awake. Eric Weiss.

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