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

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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

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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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WHEN THE OWLET WHOOPS By Alice Jamelon 'Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along: When the ivy-rod is heavy with snow. And the owlet whoops to the wolf below That 6013 the she-wolffs youngf LOWLY the old hermit makes his way through the soft snow. He draws his worn old robe about his shivering body and pauses to listen to the whistling of the wind through the tops of the high trees. The snow has covered their naked, black branches with a blanket of white, and they creak with the very weight of it. Now a bubbling sound is heard. lt is the chattering of the cold brooklet between its stony banks. ln the shade of an old and gnarled oak a mother wolf eyes the old man with a baleful, yellow glare, wondering if she should leave her cubs. But alas, she is hungry and must needs leave them. Having now come upon the bubbling brook, the good hermit kneels to fill his plump gourd. On the sparkling waters floats a tiny spectre ship, a curled and withered leaf that had been the last leaf of an old oak. Long had it fluttered on the topmost twig of the tree. Now, at length, it has fallen. The brown skeleton has passed down the rippling water. Nearby, an owlet whoops, plaintive and persistent. Having filled his gourd, the hermit arises to go, but being slightly perplexed at the owl's whooping in early evening, he stops to investigate. Again he gathers his worn robe about him. His body brushes the snow from an ivy bush. It falls with a soft plop. Still the owl whoops, wierdly now, just above his head. Suddenly he is aware of yellow eyes glaring into his. A sud- den lurch, a gray streak, and the wolf is gone. The hermit hears a frightful whimper- ing and yelping. Now he stoops beside the opening of a small cave beneath the roots of the old oak. There are the young of the wolf he has seen on the forest path. They are quiet now. The hermit straightens: he has saved their livesg now he crosses himself and turns toward his hut, hoping to reach it before night with its darkness overtakes him. THE MOON By Vera Delaplain As I looked at the moon. One bright summer's night, It seemed to cast down A wondrous light. The moon is a marvelous thing to behold For it brings back many memories of old: It lights all the meadows as far as the sight Like a round ball of Ere penetrating the night. It seems to be saying, 'ADon t you fear. For I'm here to protect you throughout the year. Thirty