Wilson Vocational High School - Columns Yearbook (Jamaica, NY)

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Eight OLD' Cdriey af fke af Baseball is true democracy It's practiced every day, And each time it is practiced lt's done the American way, It matters not whatever your creed Nor the color of your skin- lt you can hit, or field, or pitch, Then, brother, you are in, There's a Rosen, a Robinson, a Rizzuto, lt matters not the name, The only thing that matters to us ls the Way they play the game, No Wonder we love baseball For it has always shown Us how to love our neighbor Tho our cheers be all he own, Baseball keeps away the clouds of hate So there's always sunny weather, Be like players on a ball team Always live and work together, For the Ways ot baseball are examples For the Whole wide world to see, lust follow these examples And be on the side of democracy. LEE HAUSCHILD and LYNN BROOKS i' 'A' 'k 'k 'k 'k BASEBALL IN LITERATURE Have you read . . . ? Iackie Robinson's life story loe DiMaggio's Lucky To Be A Yankee The Babe Ruth Story Any of the fine books about Lou Gehrig Bill Stern's Baseball Stories

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Then a loud voice boomed out. Attention all prisoners! All heads pivoted towards the voice. It has been brought to my attention that bread crumbs have been found under the tables. With this, I started for the door. I painstakingly opened it so that not a sound would be made. All was clear, I ascended the stairs in leaps and bounds. I reached the first floor unseen. A cold, damp sweat bathed my body. Unseen, I had reached the last obstacle, the front door. According to my plan, the guard would not be there yet, but there was a miscalculation. The guard was sitting on a chair reading The Road to Insanity or Going My Way? I had read that a month ago for a book report. Perhaps we had something in common. Maybe I could persuade him to let me out, but then again, there might be no bargaining with the law. Violent emotions rose within me, and I suddenly felt an urge to turn back, but there was no retreating. I would have to fight my way out. A feeling of calm spread over me as I clutched the door. The guard sud- denly became aware of my presence. He spoke, Where are you going, bub? Trying to restrain myself, I answered, Why just outside. Have you a parole card? This was my chance. I answered, Why sure, right here. My hand reached back for my weapon, but apparently he caught sight of it, for his water pistol spoke first. I could hear the steps of Warden Weiss echoing down the corridor. I-Ie was coming to take me to the cooking room where I would be forced to taste one of everything. It was extremely clear that no matter how strong my con- stitution, I could not withstand such punishment. The steps were getting closer now. Then-!! I will close with a thought that you, the youth of America, will heed. Remember, Crime does not pay. ED VERMILYEA i i' 'k 'k if i' OTHER CRIMINALS IN LITERATURE Remember O. Henry's charming crook, Iimmy Valentine, gentleman and locker picker? . . . or, lean Valjean, Victor Hugo's great hero, who stole a loaf of bread and was hounded all his life for it? . . . or, The two unfortunate kidnappers in The Ransom of Red Chief who were finally willing to pay the brat's father if he would take his son back? Seven

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