Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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Within, all will be arranged so as to include the latest conveniences. Large, comfortable, well-lighted study rooms will be provided and the special departments will be fitted out to meet the most modern requirements. The class rooms, too, will equal any in the states, and, oh, ye plodders of the lunch room trail, there will be a regular cafeteria that rivals Brirling’s or the Tutwilcr. or both. Our library, dedicated to Orville Coston. will be a special feature in the new building. Surely we appreciate the interest of those who have so earnestly contributed to its success. May it live always in its new home as a lasting memorial to him who represented us so faithfully in the Great War. o student of Central could have shown more interest in his class and club, nor gone so bravely out to defend all that he held dear. And in the library no volume will be treasured so much as a small, soiled book, the lone survival of Central’s old library, “The Future of America.” by II. G. Wells. We attach a special sentiment to the tact that of some fifteen hundred volumes, this book, whose title bears such a meaning significance, alone was saved. It is the fundamental belief of all great teachers that their life’s work is to prepare us, as the builders of the future of our nation, for the tasks of life. Each class will leave the future of Central to those who arc to come, as they depart to share in constructing the future of America. May no class of our school enter upon this sacred mission in vain! R. D. BIRD OF OMEN Bare brown beach where the wind is deep. Catching the waves’ white hands. As they fling her beautiful jewels to keep. Tossing her shells on the sands. In the lee of the rock the long sea-moss, Flaunting her floating, hair— The wind in the grey crags mourns its loss. To the deep pools hidden there. O Sea! with thy wonder of white and blue. And the silver of blown sea-spray— O’er thy lone levels a white bird flew. Into the ebbing day. And the tremulous tints of sunset came. Though we viewed them through our tears— And the bird flew forth like a purple flame, And was lost in the Night of Years. Dorothy Elizabeth Winters, 21. Page Twenty-one

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THE WINNER Little Chief Tom Tom's ancestors were not very different from other good, straightforward Indians. They wore butcher knives, collected scalps at regular and frequent intervals and had astounding capacities for firewater. Xow when circumstance forced Little Chief Tom 'Pom to deprive himself of many of these little joys wherein his predecessors had found innocent enjoyment, he submitted with easy grace. Not so his noble brother. White Sachem did not mind discarding the butcher knife, and peace with the pale face troubled him not. Hut touching the third aforementioned essential he could not find it in his heart to forsake the ways of his forefathers. Indeed, his inability to look John barleycorn nonchalantly in the eye gave him much worry; so much, in fact, that he was frequently seen making gallant effort to banish his sorrows with the aid of the bubbling bottle. here he got the stuff was no mystery. Kyerybody knew that, and several there were who turned their knowledge to good account. In the dingy little building which stood next to the sheriff's office one John O'Shea dispensed booze with a lavish hand. Grocer by trade and bootlegger by inclination. he pursued his calling without fear or favor. It is even said that he made the sheriff await his turn. At any rate, he helped White Sachem to be happy. Indeed, sometimes the Indian would grow a trifle hilarious and it would take the local vigilance committee to convince him that the time was not ripe for the noble Shawnees to resume the Warpath. On these occasions it became the duty of his older brother to play the role of the good Samaritan. Little Chief Tom Tom never stopped to question. Am I my brother’s keeper? hut would ride to the sheriff's office and endeavor to loosen the grip of the law, gently chiding, perhaps. Tonight. Little Chief Tom Tom departed on this errand of mercy for the hundredth time. White Sachem had been in trouble so much of late that it had become almost a habit for his brother to he in the neighborhood of the blind tiger at 11 o’clock. There was no light in the place when Tom Tom arrived. The Indian tied his pony to the banister and then opened the door. The room was deathly still. A ray of moonlight entered over his shoulder and softly flooded the place. At a table sat a man. his head pillowed in his arms. By his hand lay a pistol. Save for this and the unnatural stillness of the form, one would have thought he was sleeping. A few playing cards were scattered about and on the other side of the table was an overturned chair. The Indian crossed swiftly over and knelt by a figure which lay face to the floor. For a long time he was motionless. Dimly he became aware of the ticking of a clock and slowly raised his head. A door in the hack of the room had been opened and in the lamp-light that came from within stood Johnny O’Shea, a jeer on his face. The Indian spoke. Page Tweii ty-1 liter