Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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REFLECTIONS FANTASY Perhaps you’ve seen him, though I doubt it, for few people have; and those have caught only a passing glimpse. I saw him once as the moon unexpectedly burst from a cloud in the cast. Even then his hack was toward me; however, as he looked over his shoulder, 1 felt his presence. He wore a flowing black mantle and a dignified top hat; at least, so it seemed. As he passed with a steady gait hut light step, 1 noticed his overcast countenance and his dark eyes—lustrous and dreamy; 1 heard his voice so deep-throated that I did not catch the words; I heard only his dusk) tones that left me awe-struck. Slowly his ample figure became vague, and then disappeared under the cover of darkness. He was gone into stillness—a stillness that remained until dawn; hut when Morning looked around the world and peered directly at me, I knew Night had passed. —Horace Hughens PRAYER Peaceful Becomes the scene As voices are raised In devout, reverent Prayer! —Florence Scalco FI NNY TO HE SOBER It is funny to he sober, clear-headed, and direct, while all about runs the hustle and hustle of unmeaning steps. While riotous action is running here and there without thought, it is queer to sit thinking that the world is moving without direction, and that things here today ate gone tomorrow. Why is the urge for happiness always the urge for wealth and power? In ages past, it seems there was never a time when gain was not the source and self the end. Even today people sit and wonder if they shall follow the wise and sober, or if they shall drink the drink of the selfish and reckless; and, in their drunken exhilaration, think it funny to he sober. Before they act, let them speak, not with one, but with one and twenty, the soberest of their kind. [15] —Curtis Mil wee

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The Mirror SIGNS OF WINTER Whirling, drifting snow, Falling softly to the ground; Strong, sturdy winds That whip around Tall bare trees Against a graying sky; Weather-beaten houses, With chimneys smoking high. —Doris Kincaid RAIN A dreary little sign comes from afar With the dripping, the dripping of the rain. A lonely little wave climbs a sand-bar With the coming, the coming of the rain. Somebody’s tired baby falls fast asleep With the lulling, the lulling of the rain. Somebody's huge ship tosses on the deep With the beating, the beating of the rain. One of God’s pretty flowers drinks her fill. With the showering, the showering of the rain. One of God’s wee birds opens wide his bill, With the falling, the falling of the rain. —Freida McCarter THE WIND It nips the rosy cheeks, Sweeps the golden grain, 'Turns the windmill’s vane. It drives the smoke away; It makes the trees to sway— The wind. It tosses winged seeds in flight, It disturbs the duskiness of night, The wind—the wind. —Lawton Dcaa [14]

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1 he Mirror THE WELL Why doesn’t it rain? The well is most dry. The bucket is heavy to pull up so high. If only the water were not quite so low. There wouldn’t be nearly so much rope to tow. Country folks are made and not born. At least, I hope they are. Otherwise, I would give up right now, because I'm certainly not a born one. After having lived in the city all my life, my recent move to the country has started me to thinking. City folks, who have never drawn water, don't know what it is. I’ll admit I don’t draw much, but I've tried it several times. In the first place, this particular well is very deep when it does rain—so now in dry weather it’s just that much farther to the bottom. In the second place, my water drawing muscles—if I have any—haven’t been developed. And in the third place, my delicate city hands hurt when I pull on the rough rope. The well is a drilled one, being about eight inches in diameter. The bucket is a long cylindrical tube with a valve on the bottom. Now, drawing the water wouldn't be half so bad if the bucket didn’t have a tiny hole near the bottom. Everv time the bucket is drawn up. a fine stream of water squirts in your face—or whatever happens to be in front of the hole. Of course. I wouldn’t ordinarily let a little thing like a stream of water bother me, but this happens to be very cold water, and 1 don’t like cold water in my face. It makes me think of the many winter mornings when mamma found me rather hard to awaken. Then, there's another thing which bothers me. I received verv definite orders from daddy, forbidding me to let the rope get on the ground. Consequently, I must wind it up as 1 draw. 'Phis would not be so bad. either, if I didn’t have to grab the rope and run half way across the yard with it in order to get the bucket up. Just how am I going to stand on the other side of the yard, holding to the rope to keep the bucket from going back down, and wind the rope at the same time? These are a few of the complications which 1 have encountered so far—and they continue to develop daily. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever become a real country girl. But, don’t get me wrong. I’m no sissy. I’m merely going through the process of becoming toughened. —Louise Badgley WHO SAID SO? We often hear talcs and rumors flying around from one to another, but it is very hard to check back and find out who said what. When there arc so many different interpretations tor each phrase and when so many expressions boiled down to bare facts mean absolutely nothing, we arc not sure of the truth of the reports. For instance, when our English teacher tells us our themes arc due in about two weeks, we conscientiously plan to write it “tomorrow.” [16]