Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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The Mirror THE SIGN HANGER A high spot in the busy days of little children is the advent of the sign hanger. When they hear the familiar chug of his motor and the faint sound of his horn, all the children of the neighborhood run shrieking out of their houses to be the first to greet him. 1 here he is in his old car. loaded down with paste, paper, ladders, and brushes. He greets all the kids with a cheery smile and they in turn chorus. Hello, Mr. Man. What arc you painting today? He looks mysterious, then smiles and tells them to wait. Soon he turns and starts to work. He sings awhile, then whistles, because he is happy at his work. He is the great artist before an admiring audience. They envy his skill with the large brush and strips of paper. Ah’s of admiration are heard as the picture slowly begins to form. First there is the white border that is characteristic of all sign pictures. Then the next strip and so on until the pictures is complete. I he painter tcps hack to view the picture with a critical eye. Moth the painter and the children love the picture of the little girl there upon the board. Her golden curls and smiles seemed real for the moment. The children exclaim gleefully at the new picture of Shirley Temple that is to play the next week. Pleasant anticipation for the children: satisfaction of completed work for the painter. 'I he pic.ure has passed the approval of the hanger and he begins to pack up. So with profuse goodbvs the painter rattles away and the children resume their interrupted play. —Virginia Scott A GLIMPSE OF LIFE She is coal black, aged, and a hit decrepit, and though she boasts of the fact that she wa horn “befo’ the Surrender,” she sets her age at forty-five. She is depen dent upon the welfare of kind people. Though her toothless mouth is a sign of age and poverty, her spirit is none the less durable, and her weather-beaten features arc none the less interesting. Her humble obedience is the pathetic attribute of a handicapped race. Her religion is as Puritan as her ancestry is African. Enduring faith and hope inspire her to loudly sing in a husky voice various Negro spirituals, or to chant her own improvised melodies. With a child-like enthusiasm for her work, she sells candy wheji the weather permits. One week she collects money to pay for her husband’s funeral expenses: the next week, praises God for mv health , she says, “and good meat boiling in the pot.” .Most people arc amused at her quaint characteristics; others sympathize and take part in Negro welfare movements. Her two-room shack, gaily decorated with numerous calenders, or colored pictures and festive advertisements bedecking the walls, is a veritable peep-show for small children. Her speech is usually humorous, but I knew not to laugh when one day she indignantly exploded, “Why can’t 1 get work? I got to live. 1 i folks, too! [23] —Pauline Thomas

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Tiie Mirror AN INTERVIEW I have interviewed an old friend of mine and this is what he said: “During my youth, 1 desired to make an impression, but all that uneasy craving has left me. 1 no longer expect to be impressive. Since I have lost this attitude. I not only feel at case, but 1 also find people more interesting. I say what I think, fully aware that my point of view is but one of many. “I am not at the mercy of small prejudices, as 1 used to be. Then, if I disliked the cut of a person’s hair or the fashion of his clothes, or considered his manner unpicasing, I set him down as impossible. Now I know that these are superficial things, and that a kind heart and an interesting personality are not inconsistent with side burns down even to the chin. If a person’s manner is unattractive. 1 often find that it is nothing more than a shyness which disappears the moment familiarity is established. “There has also come a sort of patience. As a child, mistakes seemed irreparable: calamities intolerable: disappointments unbearable. I have learned that mistakes can often be set right, that calamities have sometimes a compensating joy. that a disappointment is often of itself a rich incentive to try again. One learns that hope is more unconquerable than grief. And many of the sorrows of life lie in the imagination. In the imagination also lies the power to recall the good days.” —Barbara Ella Reeves THE MIMIC Her thin lips were elongated with the most crimson of crimson lipsticks. Her blonde hair was done in a startling fashion with rows and rows of smooth, tight curls on top of her head. She was advancing closer to me in a sort of tottering lope, the effect of tiny feet being encased in spike-heeled pumps. Somebody’s after her. 1 thought, or she wouldn’t be going a: uch a clip of speed. I'll offer help. But looking down the dimly lit hall, I could detect no mad monster at all. As she drew abreast. I saw it all so plainly. How could 1 have missed such an exact likeness? How could I have been so dumb. Her dead-white face gave me the first clue. None other than Joan Crawford could have such vivid lips so alive with color, nor could you tint! such gardenia-white skin on any other than Joan. The hair idea 1 recognized as one inspired by the latest picture of Anne Shirley. The walk that I, in my dumbness, thought was caused by fear was none other than the sophisticated walk of Bette Davis. How dumb I was not to see all this. Or was I? Who was she? You should know. She is found in every large high school. That “l-adore-you” look on her face is the answer. She’s a “duke’s mixture of her favorite movie actresses. Just ask her. She can tell you why “The Bride Wore Red, or who was “The Toast of New York. when really Greta Garbo should have been. But ask her “what’s a met-a-phor? and shr replies in a daze, “to put the cows in, you know. [22] —Mary Jones

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The Mirror SONGS OF STEAM I’m frail, you say, light and airy? Yet powerful weights you make me carry; For I make the wheels go ’round, Ships to move, whistles sound! I’m the stuff that moves the world! And I make the heat to flame, The force behind the worker’s game. I’m a conqucrer of Man! I’m a conquercr of steel and storms and Man! —Pauline Thomas THOUGHTS Thoughts while strolling, while sitting and dreaming; Thoughts like the wind, like the stars or the rain; Thoughts of the high nobility, Thoughts of the peasant clan; Thoughts of a whimsical young girl, Thoughts of a robust young man; Eternal thoughts of generations past. Where are you now? —Pauline Thomas VAGABOND A country road, God’s vagabond, It tramps awhile, then stops To smell a gold tipp’d golden rod, To listen to the South-wind talk. —Pauline Thomas SIMPLICITY Through auroral mists at dawning, Rising slowly over the bay, Even before the birds take warning Comes the sun to light the way. Just as in the great Beginning, God created man and beast, Things done calmly, simply, surely, Arc not numbered among the least. [24] —Pauline Thomas