Morris High School - Yearbook (Bronx, NY)

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, 9 me P M l HE New Lolumbia School of Journalism is swamped with students, wishing to enter. - News Item Seeing that Schools of Journalism are be- coming popular, we hereby consent to run one. Our first lesson is STYLE, and our first model is Burke, the famous example of a clear, lucid style. Burkels unexeelled style may be cultivated ilDur QDUJU Qthunl nf journalism . ' G alt tl , . . Adllialyux in ' IH? i X 1 il' A K 5 L by locking one's self up in a room for a couple of weeks and con- stantly reading such books as the 'tGolden Treasury, the HBook of the Dead, Robbins' Geometry, Lamb's Essays of Elia,'l and the telephone directory. A corpulent unabridged should be consulted frequently with a view towards changing small words into unusual polysyllablcs. An article written according to the foregoing instructions resulted in this: During the course of my matutinal recitations, the pedagogue who instructs me in the noble tongue of the Quirites, summoned me to his august presence, and animadverted compcndiously upon the irrefragable fact that I had not evinced any anomalous transcendency in the studyg indeed, quite the reverse. Being endowed with a fair measure of perspicacity, I most naturally anticipated severe parental objurgation, coupled, perhaps, with subsequent events more dire and mortifying, if I would make known this intelligence at my habitation, so I circumspectly forbore doing so. CThis means that I flunked Latin, and that I didn't tell 'em at home about it, because I thought Ild get a good laying out.j CAuthorls note: To be continued.D CEditor's note: Not to be continued.D morris Should Morris High School be forgot A d e b ht to min Y? n n ver roug 1 The finest school in all the land, The noblest of its kind, It bears a patriot's stamp and name, And pat riots all are we, And loyal to old Morris' fame, Our hearts shall ever be. 21

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Reply tn Burns' Span was Qtbatle to Hgauurw' V W 'AN was not made to mourng .542 Tis but thx mldest thought That God ordained to pain and grief, Those in His image Wrought. Man Was made to struggle, And lift unto the light His trodden soulg not bow it In the black despair of night. Long suffering is man, And patient under fate, But ever striving upward, To Hope's celestial gate. By adamant oppression Crushed down through ages long, At last he hears the pleading Of Liberty's fierce songg And heaving up his shoulders To burst the binding chains, Ho finds them an illusiong All phantom were his pains. 'Twas ignorance that held himg Volition was his ncedg The only cause for mourning sprang From resignationls seed. But now his discontent, His consciousness of Wrong, Is spurring on the struggle To victory ere long. Farewell to earth's few lordlings, For man, no more forlorn, Wlas made for strife, and triumph, And joyAbut not to mourn! OVVEN SHEPPARD VVHITE, '14 20

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EDBWHE EFEAT! Thou black and bitter god, on whom ,llt ' ' 'Will But yestermorn I smiled with patron air, My VVhy art thou sent on earth to cause men woe? ' ' . . , VVhat . . . Ironic deity, woulds't hear , My plaint? Thou, thou, who'st caused me all I ' This grief . . . 'T is well. Engage in spiteful scorn Mt fm is quite becomis thy nature. Earnestly, -4 U owever, I sha treat thy words, as if adm' ' In earnest they were uttered. List thee then. Long months of labor, every day of which Taxed sorely both the mind and corporal shell, I consecrated to a worthy end. On this firm base I built a pyramid Of hopes and expectations, and the top I crowned with dreams of honors realized. The fateful day drew close. My heart beat fast, Delirious imaginings near snapt , My o'ertaxed brain . . . Then came the thrice-cursed hour, With thee, thou evil genius, trailing it. BF 1? PF Pk PF if PF :lf Dk Pk God! When I think on't now, vexatious tears Well to my eyes, and fury uncontrolled Takes hold of me. The jests, the taunts, the jeers Of all the world, make mere existence Hell. My heart is sick, my brain benumbed from work And worry . . . Now Defeat, art satisfied That I have cause to scoff ? ,F IK X 41 if FK Pls PF PK Pk What miracle is this? The fiend throws off His Stygian cloak, and lo! a different god Stands in his place: white-robed, impressive, tall, And with a Visage saintly in its kind, Smiling benevolence. The very air, As if it knows his presence, scented seems With myrrh and frankincense . . . But soft- The vision speaks-'fMisfortune, to most men, Is just misfortuneesomething to be cursed- A starting point of vengeance, envy, hate. If purblind men would cease to swear and sigh When conquered by Misfortune, and instead, Essay its brighter side to see, how great Would be their gain! 'Tis unbelievable How quickly one can Hnd this brighter side, And once found then there needs must ope to view The virtuous horde: Compassion, Kindness, Love, And all their fellows. . . . He was gone. . . , My head swam. Now I saw. Defeat was not a curse, it taught By holding up to me my state of mind, Defeated, how to lighten the great weight That lies on one afHietedg by kind words, By sympathy, compassion. . . . For this all, . . . Defeat, I thank thee. GEORGE ROBINSON, '14 22