Morris High School - Yearbook (Bronx, NY)

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4 , life in Beautiful M X' K-V I-lERE's a voice afloat in this quiet air Lgg That moves me through and through, For it brings a message both sweet and fair That stirs my heart anew. 9 ,Jr- A. i 1r'.Q , A Q ,- l , f f rf. ,.,::':s::,,, Q like 't J xt ' ,, f et .r.,g,f ., A I can hear it chant in that western sky That burns with purple Ere, And its strains that gladden the realms on high The hearts of men inspire. I can hear it faint on those silvery hills, In song so low and pureg And anon it swells in triumphant thrills- The far stars feel its lure. It is whispering low on the airy Wings Of breezes Wandering near, And so sweet the hymn it softly sings The roses Wake to hear. On the notes of birds I can hear it soar, Aloft in the 'raptured airg Now loud, now soft, l can hear it pour Its holy thought in prayer. 'Twas a friend, a Woman, that spoke the word, In accents musical, And attuned the hills and the breeze and birds: HYes, Life is beautiful. And in spite of Woes that e'en we have seen, That the World may ever see, Still the life of man hath a grand thing been, And grand it will ever bell' Then chant O sky, and sing ye hills, Let breeze and bird replyg For the life of man is the thing that fills Eternity on high. IYTARY SIBERIA, '15. 23

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illllnthrr 05111152 in fllilnrria igigh is 3' - K' - V- ' V fo' ,. 1 V Z WA ff Fl v :N f Qi N -Sb ORRISITIC, Morrisite, where have you been? H ' . 1've been to the orhee to visit the Prin. M-orrisite, Morrisite, how did you fare? I got a good scolding, as you are aware. Sing a song of Regentsf Iiveryhody eramsg Four and twenty students Taking the exams. VVhen the tests are over. All the pupils passg 1sn't that a dainty dish To set before the class? French translation is vexation, I.atin's twice as hadg Geometry doth puzzle nie, And physics drives me mad. A diller, a dollar, An 8:30 scholar, XVhat makes you come so soon? Y-on used to eome at half-past eight lint now you come at noon. There was a little one, X'Vhose work he hadn't done: And all through the night he read read, read. He studied very hard, CMueh harder than this lmardl. - Hut couldn't get it through his head, head, head. Z2

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A Earls nf Eittle Eltalg Merrily shone the sun upon the noisy street in the Little Italy of New York. The street resounded with the deafening roar of skates, the shouts of the children, and the thunder of automobiles and wagons which, dashing by, miraculously left them unharmed. Not even in sunny, Hower-decked Italy was such turbulent gladness to be found. In the shelter of the corner made where the stoop jutts out sat little eight-year-old Lucia, nursing a piteous pretence of a doll. Her raven curls were tumbled over her pale face, and the eyes that fondly looked at the rag doll rivaled the deep blue Italian skies. Unnoticed she sat, often turning her eyes toward the merry group near by. She thought of the time, but a year ago, when she too frolicked as they did. That was before the scarlet fever had racked her frame, leaving but a shadow of the former sturdy child. Then, too, her father had left their cosy home for this crowded place, and friendless but for her doll and a kind neighbour, she sat in her little corner. O, vedete l cried the scornful Rosina, pointing to the doll. How funny. Lucia started from her reverie to see five pairs of mis- chievous eyes upon her and to hear the jeers directed at herself and her doll, Ho, ho! What a doll! Did yer buy it on Fifth Avenue l Look at the clothes! The blue eyes widened with terror, and when one, bolder than the rest, tried to snatch the doll from her, she screamed and burst into tears. A silent but indignant spectator of this scene was Paul, the mer- riest boy on the block. Though superior to girls and their affairs, his warm heart championed the cause of the little stranger. Scatter- ing the girls like a flock of geese, he cried shame upon them, and they, powerless save in their tongues, hurled defiance at him in the spiteful manner of girls. Saved from her tormentors by this brown-eyed Achilles, Lucia dried her eyes and thanked him in her soft mother tongue. Then unceremoniously, she hurried the reluctant, bashful hero to her babbo, in whose arms she poured out her story. His heart-felt Li ringrazio, figlio mio brought the warm blood to his cheeks as he took the proffered chair. Lucia chattered on, but the father's eye dwelled upon the lad's gaze, which was riveted upon the violin resting upon the table. Gently setting his daughter on her feet, he rose, took the violin, and with a careless Can you play? laid the instrument in Paul's hands. Lovingly he laid his cheek on the polished wood, and with a few notes had transported his audience with him to the calm Venetian Bay where the sailors call upon Santa Lucia to grant them propitious Stars. Wonderingly the elder man noted that intense hunger for 24 '