Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

Page 30 text:

OLE BLACK JOE AN’ THE MULE. Git up lerc. you lazy ole mule. An’ don't stan dere lookin' like a fool. An' don't you wiggle deni years at me ’Cause dis here whip can sting like a bee. Dis ole haid am turnin' gray. An' here's a mortgage 1 mils pay. An’ you, ole mule, will leave me soon F.f we don't work bv the light of the moon. Dese ain’t the days of the ole plantation When we wus the happiest things in creation. When you wus jes' a lil colt An' on your back I tried to bolt. An' you did roll an’ kick an' jump. An’ bust my haid up 'ginst the pump. Mos’ folks think dat it’s a joke. ’Cause a nigger’s haid ain nc er been broke. 1 wish you'd hurry up a lil . An’ git these things to Massa Bill An dogged if it wouldn't be jes’ our luck For him to get a motor truck. Now ef you wants good corn an' hav. You kaint stan' roun the whole long day. So 1 wish you’d burn up a lil'. An’ git these things to Massa Bill —Solomon Garden. 13. A REVERIE. I close my eyes and wistfully dream Of a winding road by a winding stream Gilded bv the sunset gleam: And of willows that droop by the water side. And the tall, stern oaks in majestic pride. And the whisp'ring elms and the poplars gray To the old warped mill with its rotting beams. And others that shade the lovely way That guards the silvery, singing stream. (O, the lilting melody of the stream of my dream!) There are cool gray rocks and the old mill wheel, And the pond above: and I seem to feel The soft, damp mist of the water-fall. And the rushing thrill of the water's call: f (O, the deep, sweet mystery of it all, the water s call.) 28

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VIVIAN SLATON IRENE WALOHORST WTLLOW TREES. Between red clay banks that slope and slide. The red brown waters crawl and drawl. Under a pale, green arch that droops and hides. Within its wondrous hue, the rise and fall Of thoughts that pass within the winds, For with each light moving of the breeze. The dreams of nature stir and wind Themselves among the low, o’erhanging willow trees. So as the sun goes down and shadows glide. From round the trees and stalks of weeds. The muddy waters still sweep and slide. Beneath bent willows, heavy with seeds Of sleep, that hide within the leaves. All day rocked by the ever-waking breeze. At dark they stir and and float from the leaves. Bearing in dreams they hold, the stir of willow trees. —I. M. W. 2 7

Page 31 text:

Again, again, I seem to hear j The liquid notes of a dream-song near, Rippling and trippling the waves come on, Joyously gurgling o'er corded stone; Echoing the melody whispered at night— By the stars that twinkle so gladsome and bright. And the hurrying wind with its crooning low, And the twittering birds math the moon's soft glow— Echoing the plaint of the whippoor-will. And the call of the night-bird keen and shrill. And the moan of the willow (forsaken of trees), And the dark, drear days when nature grieves; Echoing the patter of spring-time rain; Echoing murmurs of age-old pain; Weaving them all in a wonderful song, (O. the wonderful melody «»f the song of my dream!) —Vivian Slaton, 13. WILL YOU MISS ME? We’sc goin’ ter move! Least, so Ma said, En 1 won't be hcah entiy mo' Fur you t’ call me “Tanglchead.” We is goin' ter move, We’se almos’ done moved now, Fur de things, they'se packed En de po’eh it‘s packed Wif everything, 'ccpt th cow. Wen you come to play You’ll look Votin' en say, “Where's Tinkle? en I'll be gone! We’ll all be moved Far off tz wc kin go— En th house’ll be locked, En th corners’ll be stocked Wif spider webs, all in a row! Esc all time liked to live by you, But don’t matter now, ’Cause we’se already sold our chickens E11 goin’ ter sell our cow. Yer won’t see me in a long, long time En yer can’t never come— We’se goin’ ter a farm Wif a horsie in a barn. I ain’t askin’ but—won’t cher miss me some? —Lena Kcllog, '13. ?f)