Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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The Mirror HUMORESQUE • • • THE JIG-SAW PUZZLE With glassy eyes and throbbing head, As hour bv hour went bv, A boy, who should have been in bed, Sat fitting a jig-saw sky. And then he made the jig-saw grass, And too—some jig-saw sheep. The test next day he failed to pass, Recause he was asleep. —Horry Lifison THE SPOOKS “When the moon comes over the mountain,” And the ghosts are playing around, We hear the weird sounds from the fountain. And the yelp and bay of the hound. When the owl says, “Who, Who, Who,” Each pulls the cover over his head. When the ghost says, “You, You, You,” Wc act bravely although we are scared. —To to Smiley [26]

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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

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The Mirror UPHEAVAL! In the days of old. Before knights were bold. The honest man trod With safety the sod. “And birds and beasts were there,” For man had set no snare— And there was no fear of Jove. After this golden time Because everything did not rhyme. Men said rulers should he routed: Then, to the Earth, Hades spouted. And there was fear of Jove. Tom Smiley o IN REVERSE Nights and days In endless maze I spend in writing verse. Mental pains Have brought no gains, But criticism terse. Every line Shows some decline. As each atttempt grows worse. JIarry Upson [27]