Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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SPANISH CLUB

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Somewhere Somewhere the tide wave turns, Somewhere a beacon burns, Somewhere there is light for the dreary, Somewhere there's a race well run, Somewhere at the set of the sun But it's weary, the waiting, weary. Somewhere there’s a harbor calm, Somewhere are the breezes balm. Somewhere there’s a shore not dreary. Somewhere there’s a shore of light. Somewhere at the fall of night— But it’s wearv, the waiting, weary. Somewhere my ship may land. Somewhere on a sunlit strand, Somewhere there’s a day more cheery. Somewhere o’er the rolling wave, Somewhere the storms cease to rave But it’s weary, the waiting, weary. —r. E. w. Every breeze that stirs the glade Has some sweet joy to bring us: Every bird hid in the shade Has some sweet song to sing us; Every cloud that sails the sky Has golden beams for living; Every heart that breathes a sigh Sighs only when repining; Every star that greets the night Is hope without misgiving: Every man is giv’n the sight To see the joy of living: Every song of night and day Is Nature’s gladness voicing: Everyone has some small way To set the world rejoicing. —P. E. W. 27

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Silent Forty-Nine Do not come back until you have made good. The words with which his father disinherited him rang in the ears of Jack Mackenzie as he descended the steps of his home. His ostracism from his father’s house and fortune was the result of a riotous life. The friends he had made were not of the kind to whom he could go in trouble. He must mingle with the throng that he detested. What could he do? He had wasted his opportunities at college, and for more than one escapade he had been dishonorably dismissed. He was as helpless as a baby before the problem that now confronted him. The sting was that to-morrow would bring shame and disgrace in the form of Haring headlines that told of his father's act. He strolled casually into his club and picking up a paper, settled himself to read until noon. As he glanced carelessly over the paper his eye was caught by a small article which read as follows: “The Foreign Legion of France, a regiment composed of nondescripts from the whole world, put down a rebellion of rabs south of the Sahara. This group of soldiers is the most uniaue in all the world. If a man wishes to join the Legion and keep his name secret he is given a number. No questions are asked. Men, cast adrift by society, often bury themselves in the Legion and retrieve their tarnished names by valor ’ For an hour Jack sat in the easy chair, thinking, and when he arose, his decision was made. That night he boarded a steamer for France. He did not ride first-class, as always before, but went below as a stoker. The trip was hard and weary to Jack. With his hands blistered and bleeding, after his first four-hour shift, he retired to his bunk, utterly exhausted. After his allotted rest, he toiled painfully and slowly down the companionway into the hold of the liner. Above him was the life to which he was accustomed. Below was the hull of the ship and the fathomless depths of the ocean. In excruciating pain he worked side by side with the hardened men of other spheres of life the laborers. They worked cheerfully and easily, while he. the spendthrift. suffered torture at each bend or shift of his body. As days passed the soreness left and he toiled and played with the sweat-begrimed demons of the boiler-room. He grew to like to sec the shining teeth of the men gleam between their parched and blackened lips. The trip neared its end. He was soon to be a legionary soldier a pawn of fate. He landed at Marseilles and immediately proceeded to Algiers. He went directly to the recruiting offices of the Legion and having passed the examination was sent to a station on the northern border of the Sahara. He reached the station one afternoon, after a hard trip from the coast.