Central High School - Red and Black Yearbook (St Louis, MO)

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1' em Fw ini mfg fmt n M l mln Xi W 1 mm Immmmmmmuunmmm... mm W. m mmlmmmmn ,mmm mmm mm Illlllllllllllllll' mmm. 'mmm mmm mmllnmmllmmmmm 'ml mmmlmlmmm 'mir mmlllillm Emmwmmwmmmwm w A x,...- ,355 T Q. F' .gif ml H Q Zf' -A1 ' th A X .,.4. ,L 1 m ,, A 5- A WP. THE LIFT OF PAN By Larry lVez'r, '34 AN, god ofthe meadows and woods, tant. That is why he sat there brooding sat on a stone in front of one of his and meditating. When Pan was sad, or sanctuaries among the mountains of gloriously happy, he played on his pipes. Arcadia. For once, he was tired of dancing with the moun- tain Nymphs and making love to Echo. He sat de- jected, fingering listlessly the Hute that hung by his side. All about him the sky was a deep azure blue. The clouds came in herds like sheep slowly browsing across their pasture, now and then one straying from the flock. ln the distance loomed aged mountain peaks, looking like hoary vener- ables with their snowy tops. Ma- jestic trees tow- ered above him, seemingly stretching their lofty boughs higher and higher, try- ing to get a glimpse of the world beyond the mountain ranges. Yet Pan was not contentg something vital was missing, something very impor- Ttvvnly -vighi So, unconscious- ly, from long habit, he brought his pipe to his lips and played. The loving whis- per of the south wind, the babble of the brook, the murmur of the leaves, were all within his song. And yet there was s o m u c h more than these quiet repetitions of the same mo- notonous sounds --there was, be- sides, a lilting melody, to be heard from noth- ing in nature it- self, but only from those pipes of Pan. He play- ed softly, slowly caressing each note as if loath to part with it before it floated downward into the valley. Then, like the bursting of a bud into the sudden glory of a flower, there came to him the reason for his depression. Except for his own, there was no music: the world

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. . -'an ' -EEA 6. .... 14: mt As my I lllllll ulillllnuuw in ml HH' lln mnvh lllllli lllllllillllllill Q 163 5 . lhlill llltllwli lnlllllll' l 'lil lI'llllllll'll' lll illlllllllll IllIl1llllll llllllllllll1Wlll .A ...j r ,'... art inf ' A W ui, 34 21, Ai.. ,Z by X' . ' ,,'. l ' 'T .,A ' 'T 3' , ' a:.-. . W , Tue .v fix.: in '1 urn: .uumu :ii ,,,, llllllll'-1 '. ' 'I 'Pav +.. l wni1n..g '. .1n111wulnn1lu.::a:w' .1 .iw . There, another guard has taken the sec- ond one's place. lt's a hot day, but they are covering him with blankets to try to keep his cooling body warm. When the guard releases his pressure, the boy's body shivers a little, but it is not his own move- ment. Guards are rubbing his hands and patting his feet to restore circulation. With each downward pressure of the guard's hands, a little water spurts from the boy's mouth. This continues for half an hour, and then, instead of water, blood begins to come from him. The purple tint is slowly stealing down his neck and to his shoulders. He is bare to the waist, and his skin is very white-far too white, for few living people are that color. We stand for what seems hours, chang- ing our positions now and then, causing a rustle that can be heard distinctly. l never saw so large a crowd so quiet. The guards seem indefatigable. They continue their steady down pressure, and release. The boy's face is not nice to look at. A woman on the other side of the circle faints. Gee, if they can't stand to see these things, why do they come? She is taken away. Even the guards are losing hope. One of them lights a cigarette and sits calmly watching. lt will soon be his turn to work on the boy. To the observer they seem hard and callous, but they get used to this very soon. A doctor is here and he examines the boy, while the guards keep on pumping. He shakes his head. We hear a low hum go through the crowd. Comments are many. Poor boy, and he is so young! See, he is dark almost to the waist. ul told you he didn't have a chance, says a middle-aged man in tones of satis- faction at having been right. The guards have stopped, for the re- quired two hours are up. They wrap the boy in a blanket and one of the guards lifts him. He is taken to a car and driven to the undertaking parlor which is near here. That place does a good business. The crowd slowly disperses and we go back to our play and fun. Another tragedy of the river is over. TROPICAL STORM By Emil S. Brock. '34 lifourtesy, St. Louis Timesd Beyond the palm-tree waving free. Rolls the gray, relentless sea, The white-caps on the foaming waves Dash themselves in rock-bound caves. A ship is struggling with the sea: Now it races to the lea To anchor safely in the bay. Where only zephyrs lightly play. The storm is o'er and calmness reigns supreme: The sudden outbreaks like a fearful dream: And bird-songs in the leafy palms Still my heart like healing balms. Twenty-seven

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4-X Q ll jiwll A 'id' Si' 1 Mil Q4-'E' .liligfzcfzxl-. 7 A -' -'.2.f,CA Af ' 'e - p V x....- I . ' ' . ' 1 , - , wk gf'-PN ' ' 1 i 'A lil ' . ..Vf., .F . , ,-.Q , H , , 1 : us... 1: i 7 l : f 1 Al.g r l Q c ::..- i' if ' . ' lllllllllllllllllllllllllmml will :ll llnilllllllllllh Nllllll IIIINII lllllll llllllllllllllllll' 'llllllll was destitute of song. Music, song, mel- ody-that was what was missing. But how was it to be supplied? He glanced down into the valley below and saw, Hying from tree to tree, small, delicate creatures dressed in varicolored plumage. Birds! Why shouldn't they sing? What could be more wonderful than that these creatures who live so inti- mately with nature, and fly across the heavens so gracefully, should sing? What could be more inspiring to man than to awake in the morning with the music of birds to greet him? So he spoke to the murmuring south wind, and told it to herald far and wide that on the following morn a committee of birds from each species should assemble in front of his cave. '- When they had all flown to the quiet valley, Pan spoke to the co'ngregation of feathered folk in front of him: For hap- piness the world requires music, and but for mine it has none. When l leave the earth to live an immortal life on Olympus, as l soon must, for men are beginning to doubt me, and the gods can exist only so long as men believe in them, the world will be empty of music entirely. So l, as a god, give you the power to sing. When you sing to each other of your loves and joys, man will be delighted. l-le will try to copy your songs with his own voice, and contrive to make instruments that produce sounds as beautiful as yours. By him you will always be welcomed. Of beast and fowl you will hold one of the highest places in his esteem, for man will adore music. l shall play for you all my songs. 'lhlllI lllllllll lllllllllllllllllllllllllll 'lllli 1I'IIIllllU!ll'A Ill llllilllllll mgllllllllllllllllmllllllllllll Each species shall choose the song it likes most to be its own. It shall teach that song to all the members of its race. And they, in turn, shall teach it to their children, and they shall teach it to theirs. So shall my songs be preserved from gen- eration to generation, and live for all eternity. So he played all his melodies-all those he played when his heart was joyful, and those he played when his heart was sad. He played his fanciful ones and his whim- sical ones, all those he could remember- and some he made up while he played. After each song a great chatter went up from among the birds, as they tried to decide whether they should choose that one or not. Finally, everything was settled, and they were about to depart, when there flew into the valley a straggler, one who had played along the road and arrived too late. It flew towards Pan and lighted softly on the branches above him. Pan, perceiving it, addressed it angrily, You, O late one, why are you so tardy? All my songs have been chosen, and l am too weary to compose another for you. You shall have no song of your own, but must mock the songs of others if you wish to sing. Henceforth you shall be known only as the Mocking Bird. So now when you awake in the cool of the morning, when all things are fresh with the dew, and you hear the melodious tunes of the robin, thrush, and meadow- lark, think sometimes of the giver of their songs, of Pan who long ago danced with the Nymphs, and made love to Echo in the far-off mountains of Arcadia. Twenty-nine