Seven Hills High School - Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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Milestone High School Poem --First Prize BLAME THE SCIENTIST The world is a brilliant sphere of flame, Torn by jagged boulders ten miles high Which rip out canyons that are continents wide In which men by the millions make their graves. The mountains crash to earth with deaf'ning roars, Burying cities with their burnt remains, Which instantly are seized and whirled on high And dumped into the lashing ocean waves. ELIZABETH CARSON, '48 I flip, Q ,M ill First Prize Primary Drawing Elizabeth Foshdll, Third Grade PRISONER OE WAR Tones sepulchral and a hollow voice had he, Deep in his head, like two incandescent coals, Burned his eyes- Eyes that were black, and blacker with despair, Gaunt of frame, beaten, and broken, he Who, not so long ago, had for the last time Kissed his dying child, Watched Death, with his bloody scythe, reap harvest. His skeleton lingers gripped his grimy cup. Burning, terrible eyes for the last time looked Upon this world- World of torment, hunger, sickness, and despair. Today, he and three hundred others died. His glutted guard, a snarl of loathing on his puffy lips, Dragged him off, And thrust him, roughly, into the burial pit. Oh, you who live well in security, How could you have allowed this man to die, Tortured and starved: Forsaken him and let him die like this? A few of you foresaw the coming storm, But those few could not stem the rushing tide And were imprisoned, And died, and still are dying there, like Hies. flnspired by pictures of the Nazi prison camps, and by stories of Nazi atrocitiesj NANCY FosHAY, '48 page 87

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Milestone the pleasant memories. That's what he wanted you to do, and that's what you would do. For you, Christmas was a time of memories, of happiness, a time to be happy, and to make others happy, a time for giving, a time for love, for singing, and visiting, and going to church. That was Christmas. This year is different. The guns are stilled - we hope, forever. Thousands of boys have come home: and for those who will never come home, the longing is no longer so aching, but wistful, sad, perhaps a little philosophical. The war is over. The little things you missed are here: you laugh now over what once seemed so colossal. Gas rationing is over: meat rationing is over: shoe rationing is over. Soon you can buy nylons, radios, and cars. I-low important they were, when you couldn't get them? You wonder why you thought so much of little things that didn't matter! Maybe you are one of the lucky ones who didn't lose somebody dear to you. NVe hope you are, but you must be one of a few. Those of us who have suffered will, in time, forget the bitterness and horror of what is past, and do our best to make this world a better one, You are not going to wait till New Year's to write your resolutions: you are going to make them now. For you, Christmas is a time of peace and good will, and of resolve to help your fellow man. So you want to be a philanthropist? Well, that's fine, if you stick to it. Doesn't seem to be much wrong now, does there? The war's over, life is almost normal again. Really, there isn't much to do. You can sit down to a Christmas table heaped with turkey, sauces, vegetables, fruits salads, and nuts, and top off dessert with a glass of champagne. But, wait a minute: if you really want to be benevolent, here are some facts that might help your There is probably not one little boy or girl in France today who has ever tasted ice-cream. Few of them have ever seen an ice cube. The only chocolate they know is what the Americans have given them. But that's only the beginning. Maybe you live down South, and you don't realize how cold it can be. Maybe you live in Maine, or Massachusetts, or Minnesota, or Ohio, and you need all your winter clothes. But do you really need them? The wind blows cold in Paris, Brussels, Oslo, Moscow. The snow falls fast in the Pyrenees and the Carpathians. Food is scarce. Paris children gather twigs from the Bois de Boulogne, to feed their tiny fires. Berlin children crawl through the rubbish of Unter den Linden, looking for food that is not there. Freezing, starving Poles and Czechs shiver in drafty railway stations, waiting for trains that may, or may not, come. Little Jewish skeletons sip their meagre bowls of porridge, nibble at the single hunk of black bread, that it may last longer. They are starving, They are freezing. They are dying. This is Christmas. Christmas, they teach us as children, means peace and love, understanding and giving. You who have so much, give to those who have so little, Stretch out your plenteous hands across the sea toward the broken, fragile, scrawny souls and bodies. Give them your hearts, your hands, your love. For love is God, and God is Christmas, and we were made in God's image to love one another. CAMERON DILL, 146 page 86

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Milestone High School Poem - Second Prize MSCI-IUBERT REMINDS ME OE A TREE IN WINTER A tall black silhouette: a cold, white sky, Long, lonesome branches and a mournful sigh. Priendless and freezing: a proud, mammoth tree. Long racking sobs blow the last leaves free. One crying heart and its music which was great. Fingers made by genius and a world made by hate. Cold, proud and hungry: a despairing soul Dying unwanted, unknowing, at its goal. BETTY CHAPMAN, '48 J ,N e.. WI Q' f' ' x at 'Nils , f' I' ., H High School Poem - Honorable Mention RED IS EOR COURAGE As though its life were not enough and had to be of brighter stuff Than that of which other states Are made, with forests green and fields -With beigey weeds and seeds of jutes- As though it had not been content with common lot which God had sent Her other friends whose hearts Were humble but not noble less Than those with race and grace as rootse- She bears a sign, and though you doubt, and think that it was made without I-Ier destiny's bright star As guide, or that she should in honor wear A branch with pain and shame as fruits- She wears it now and always will, though noise of civil strife is still And gone's the fuel on which it fed. And who's to say it's not a sign, When, looking 'neath her friendly pine, We Hnd that Georgia's soil is red. HARRIET BIERY, '46 page 88