Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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tic was around her waist. Still uncomprehending, the Girl sat looking at the moss, pressed in where she had lain. Then the truth dawned on her. A Dream, she said curiously. “Was it a Dream? It must have been. The Bohemian gypsy’s words came to her. “The Practical Man knows how to play, said the gentle voice. The Girl's cheeks burned crimson. For a long while she sat. head buried in her arms, striving to quiet the rapid beat of her pulses. Then she rose, took the flowers from her hair, removed the scarlet tie from her waist and then very, very slowly climbed the hill. The Girl paused in the shadow of the trees. The Practical Man sat on the moss, his book flung aside, his eyes fixed on the sunset. Very softly the Girl called his name. He was on his feet in an instant, coming toward her with rapid, eager strides. The Practical Man was still the Practical Man but the look in his face was changed. And the Girl looked into his eyes and knew that the end of the Adventure did not lie outside the wall. —Irene Waldhorst, 14- PAGE ONE-EIGHTEEN. When all the school is young, lad, And all the I 'reshies green, And every book is new. lad. And all toward knowledge lean: Then hey f«»r pen ami pencil, lad! The midnight oil to burn : Young beads must study hard, lad. For everyone must learn. Young heads must study hard, lad, For eveyone must learn. When all the school is old. lad. And all the Freshies frown, And every hook is torn, lad, And e'en the clocks run down; Creep slowly to your place there. The wearv ones among; Oh, may you find one pass there You’ve worked for all along. Oh, may you find one pass there You’ve worked for all along. 20 —Vivian Slaton.

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of astonishment. Look! The top of this post is crooked. Perhaps there's a door inside.” Together they lifted the heavy oak knob of the newel post. The Bohemian gypsy ran his arm down the opening and brought out some dust-covered papers. Both were much excited. They sat on the stairs and the man dusted off the papers. But the papers were blank. The Girl Struggled to hide her disappointment. “Perhaps it’s best we don't know the romance for now we can imagine things and make it picturesque. But I’d like to have the end of the Adventure. The Bohemian gypsy smiled oddly as he tied the papers together again. “Perhaps the end of the Adventure lies outside the wall ' he suggested. The girl sighed. “It doesn't for me. I shall go back and cover myself up with a cloak of conventionality and live a life seemingly like all the other people I know. But, in truth. I will always play. She rose and walked toward the door. The Bohemian gypsy followed. “You say that now. he said. But after you've been thoroughly saturated with society, you'll forget there ever was such an Adventure as this ’ I won't.” the Girl cried indignantly. “I won't. I won't. I’ll never forget how to play.” For answer the man handed her the package of papers. “There was some writing. Perhaps you’d better read it. he said in a curiously quiet voice. The Girl stared at the name written on the paper that lay on top. Why—why that was my mother's maiden name. “Yes. said the Bohemian gypsy in the same dull voice. “She said she’d never forget her own self in the world, that she'd never get so interested in the scheme of life that slic'd forget her own feelings. You knew her? asked the Girl softly. Yes. And when site told me she was to marry your father—” There was a silence. ”1 thought I would tell her even after that.” the man began again. But it did not seem right. She lived here, you know. I thought I would write. But that. too. was not fair. So 1 laid a number of blank pages before me. I though of all 1 had wished to tell her. Then 1 tied the papers together and addressed the top sheet. I wanted to put ii somewhere near her That night as I was standing in the hall I thought of the newel post. I unscrewed the knob, dropped the letter in and put the knob back. It must have been knocked crooked afterwards, for she never knew. She went into society and forgot lu-r ideas.” The Girl was very quiet and when the man spoke again it was in a new voice that startled the Girl. And so you will change. It's iust the youth and Spring in you and that will go. There's not a thing in the world that docs not pass some time. The Bohemian gypsy was gone. Before her stood a man. smiling cynically. sob rose in the Girl's throat. “It won’t. (), it can’t. I'll tight the world until I find some one who knows how to play ' The man touched her arm softly. Little girl.” he said gently, the Practical Man knows how to play. Don’t treat him as if he were so old. The tears blinded her and the dull pain in her throat was stilling. With a choking cry. she ran through the garden, out the gate and into the wood. The Girl gave a little gasp and sat up. Her throat was smarting and her eves felt hot. ith eyes still shadowy with sleep she looked about her. She was beside the splashy brook. The sedate old tree still nodded above Iter. She looked at her feet, but the sturdy little oxfords were on them. IL r hands flew t her hair; the red flowers were there and the scarlet 9

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RUBY HEATON CURTIS HARPER ALICE JONES “The Last Leaf”—A Paraphrase Only once before have I seen him pass my house; and now again I hear the pavement-stones resounding as he. bent with age and worldly cares, feebly walks by, tapping with his cane. I have heard that when he was young and strong, long before he was touched or blighted by fatal time, there was no youth more courageous or valiant to be seen by the » ld town crier as he went his round. But as lu- walks now through the streets, looking at every person he meets so forlornly, shaking his feeble head, and muttering to himself, he seems to say. They are g0h«•. Moss-covered tombstones mark the resting place of the loved ones of his vouth. and all the names he used to hear have for years been carved on the cold, cruel tomb. . Mv grandmama has told me—she is long since dead and gone—that he when young and handsome had a Roman nose and a ruddy, healthy glow upon his sun-tanned check. h. but now that he has been grasped by Father Time, his nose is sharp and thin, and it almost meets his pointed chin. He is bent and stooped and his laugh is pierced by a melancholy crack. I know I should not sit here and laugh as 1 look at him. It is really a sin. But his old three-cornered hat and peculiar breeches are all so queer and out of date. Xow. if I should live to be the last and withered one of my generation, the last leaf upon the tree, and should live when all else was young and bright, let them smile, as I am doing, at the old fashioned bough where I alone remain. —Harry J. White. 13.