Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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The Mirror On the third day, the “little ones evidently “played out. We had to leave the shade of the majestic tree and cut weeds. Had the weeds only been daffodils, the sparrows, skylarks and nightingales, we might have done a good job; as it was, the surface of the court resembled nothing so much as the gray ocean in a fury. On the first day of spring (March 21) one of our charter members hitched his stubborn pony to a scraper. With a powerful jab of the stocky foot and a blast of air, the pony slowly walked around. Each jab of each hoof left a hole large enough to hide a tennis ball. In a deliberative mood we retired from the disgusting scene to conceive a clever plan. Why not tie tow sacks on those offending hoofs? As simple as the mice belling the cat! Who could summon enough nerve to do the tying? However, concluding that in union there is courage as well as strength, we jumped at the steed and cjuickly but firmly adjusted the sacks. The pony must have had a sudden attack of spring fever—he didn’t open his eves. He clumsily lifted sack and feet once, then refused to move. What an embarrassing moment! The poltroons laughed and jeered and even the pony with a loud neigh woke to agree. Finally with all patience ended, we unhitched the beast with an order to “scram.” We retreated to the magnolia tree but night overtook our plans, and away we went home to dream of the day when the court would be smooth and the jeering spectators wistfully hoping for us to ask them to play. Robert Beyer [24]

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The Mirror PROJECTS NOT FINANCED BY XYZ I. THE TENNIS COURT I T was a hot, sunny, quiet Sunday. Finding no program worth my valuable time, I snapped off the radio and angrily walked into my bedroom. From the assortment of baseball gloves, footballs, golf clubs and what-not, 1 picked my tennis racket and waved it around vigorously, depicting Bill Tilden. While doing my backhand lob, I heard a car's horn. Rushing out, 1 saw three friends who were all eager to play the glorious game of tennis. With the gas meter at zero, we proceeded happily to the tennis court, hoping to come home within the car not behind it. It was during our trip that we planned one of the most daring projects ever undertaken by us—building a tennis court! As usual, no one was on the court, and as usual, no sooner had we got our shoes filled with dust, than there was a hopeful crowd calling the familiar phrase, “We got the winners.” The phrase slowly changed to threats. To prevent threats becoming actions, we reluctantly retired to the future site of our private court. We sat under the magnolia tree, deliberately picturing the future triumph, despite the towering weeds and the rugged ground. With the sparrows sleeping above and pictures of the court drawn on the ground below, we left in firm accord to build a tennis court of our own. Monday evening after school, when the blazing sun was sending shafts down futilcly upon the cowering dust, I was drinking water under the large tree and pretending that I had worked hard. When the curfew tolled the knell of parting day, 1 slowly wound my way over the .ea home to tend my tender palms. The second day was more eventful. Some small boys wanted to work so that they may play when the court is finished. Agreeing readily, all of us big ones” sat under the magnolia tree and calculated. With my back against the tree, my feet crossed, slowly shaking back and forth, and my tongue slowly diminishing a popsicklc, I thought of the most tcrribic thing possible. Who was to buy the net, the backstops, the sand, and the other paraphernalia? “Paraphrasia” seized the trio when 1 further added that the cost would be more than $10. And when the time came that all good boys must say goodnight, the sparrows were sleeping above and a group of discouraged figures shivered on the ground below. [23]

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The Mirror II. THE GARDEN January 25. “Yes, Madam, I desire to see some hooks on gardening.” After glancing over a few, choosing the ones with largest print and cutest binding, the future horticulturist wends his way home, thinking of the vast garden of next summer. After trying in vain to read the books without paying attention to the highly scientific terms. he was as lacking in the knowledge of husbandry as the highly efficient government “Trypto-lemus.” Giving up all hope of acquiring the necessary knowledge from books, he received his education from loquacious straw-chewing farmers and concise mail house catalogues. At last the sweet daughter of the rough sire of winter comes forth, hanging her infant blossoms upon bare trees and unlocking the flowers to paint the soil. Out of the house comes the exuberant city farmer with his lofty ambition to build a garden rivaling Eden. Carefully removing the price tags from his new tools, he starts the backbreaking task of digging hdle in the rocky, sandy ground. His ambition never wanes; he is determined to puncture the ground. In each hole he places very carefully a seed, “guaranteed to rise in 30 days or another furnished absolutely free.” All the hard work over, joyfully he covers the holes and warns his children to stay away from his treasured piece of land. That night, in the restful silence of his home, the ambitious tiller of the soil painfully lies, redolent of rubbing alcohol. April 8. Time painfully passes on. Under the spreading plum tree reclines the yeoman, proudly surveying the landscape. Bird baths, stone scats and white trellises adorn the parched hillside, but not a blade of grass. He recalls exactly how cleverly he arranged his flowers. Gazing at the lonely trellises, he imagines how the twisted eglantine will appear upon the crudely constructed boardwork. All is finished; the rest is up to tile sun and the “guaranteed seeds.” The sun did its share; in fact, a huge water bill is evidence of an attempt to dampen its ardor. April 10 to May 22. Every morning, upon his sore knees, the sad man carefully feels the ground. Ail of his labor, all of his dreams of a second Garden of Eden arc dissolved like a shiny bubble. Carefully pulled blades of grass he angrily throws away . Thoroughly disgusted, the unsuccessful florist casts the trellises down to the basement to be used for kindling wood. May 23. One bright morning, upon his knees is the man, examining the ground. With a scream of excitement he rises, runs around the field frantically calling for a flower pot in which to place his treasure. Nervously he jams his clumsy finger into the loose dirt, and plants his treasure. Away he runs to show his achievement to the cranky and skeptical neighbors. December. 6. Time flies along. In the window a green plant in a gay jardiniere offers a delightful contrast with the snow covered landscape. Beside it sits a man, chin cupped in his palms. How fair is a garden amid the thoughts of toil and pain! —Robert Beyer [25J