Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

Page 19 text:

The Fatal Voyage of the “Arabic There was great excitement aboard the Arabic as she pulled nut of the Savannah River, even when the passengers were in close view of the solid, dry land. It was not until she steamed past the little lightboat anchored in the mouth of the bay, that the real excitement began. The newspapers for days had been filled with the terrible disasters that had befallen the vessels in the Atlantic coast service, and every person on board knew the meaning of that—submarines! There were some on board who were there only for the sake of adventure; there were others forced by the wrecks on the railroad to take this trip as a last resort. Among the latter class was a wealthy Northerner returning from his winter of ease at Palm Beach. He had had a very profitable time indeed, the external evidence of which was the fact that his girth now almost equaled his height. He showed little concern about the dangers talked of. and so remained practically the only calm person aboard. This made him a hero in the eyes of many of the more alarm‘d passengers, and he was sought out (much to his delight) for words of as sura nee of a safe voyage. The Arabic proceeded on her journey, maintaining all the while a lookout. Nothing was sighted for the first day and night. The next day about noon the pilot was given. Periscope starboard quarter. The captain ordered full speed ahead and drove his vessel head-on at the supposed submarine, which proved to be a floating log. When the passengers learned of their close call the tenseness of the situation was greatly increased. The night brought on uneasiness to all aboard the ship, except the round old New Vorker who alone (to all external appearances) remained calm and collected. The ship was quiet, only the steady throbbing of her powerful engines kept up through tlic night. Suddenly her engines stopped. There was a mighty silence, then a deafening crash and the whole vessel trembled from prow to stern. That same shock rolled the fat New Yorker from his berth. He grabbed the life belt and his purse, rushed madly down the deck where he met the captain. Captain, he shouted, arc we lost? Save me, save me!” “Get in your berth, you lubber, you can’t get on a New York clock in that costume. The captain turned and gave an order to a flock hand, while the hero returned sadly to his stateroom, much to the amusement of the other passengers now crowding the fleck. Moral: Don’t pose to be something you are not. 17 DOUGLAS BOYD, 'Ifi.

Page 18 text:

CLIO LITERARY SOCIETY

Page 20 text:

A Modern Wood Mymph A glimpse of her as she came down the mountainside, so young and so full of life, would make one understand what it is to live. She was slim and lithe of figure. As she stopped and listened to the call of the woods she reminded one of the gray squirrel in her quick pausing. Her breathing was gentle and easy, although she had come down a steep mountainside. She brought with her to the green and grey and brown of the woodland a new note of color, for her calico dress was like the red of some wild flower and her eyes were blue like the heavens. Her heavy brown-red hair fell over her shoulders in loose profusion. The simple dress was freshly briar-torn and in many places patched, but it still hung in graceful lines. She wore no hat, but the same spirit of childish fancy that made her eyes dance as she heard the calls of the birds, her friends, caused her to make for herself a headdress of leaves and wild roses. With such a crown she might well have been called the Queen of the Forest. As she stood with the toes of one bare foot twisting in the cool grass, she laughed with the pure joy of life and youth. MARGARET I.YKES, T6. Kamaraden KAMERA DEN. Note:—In the Spring issue of The Mirror, because of an error, the story, “Kameraden, was left incomplete. We take this opportunity to explain this regrettable occurrence and to give credit to the author. He wished he could stop the incessant roar. Now it was gone. He knew it was not so, but he seemed to be at his piano in his studio in Dresden. and Fritz was standing by his side, as he told his friend of the music. The arm which he lifted to take the sheet from his coat could not reach the top button. It dropped limply and he lay quite still. 18 FRED HARD. ’17.