Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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1 he Mirror But when it is due we're still waiting for “tomorrow to come. Or, when we arc met face to face with the startling question, “When are you going to do it? , regardless of what it is we are supposed to do. we very nonchalantly remark, “Oh. some day next Tuesday.” (Wimpy the Great's favorite expression). Then when Tuesday arrives, wc always can have the ready excuse that there will be other Tuesdays. We cannot often resist the temptation to repeat what wc hear and therefore wc are classed as gossips” (gentlemen included). Finally, when, from curiosity, some worthy person undertakes to find out just where the rumor was so enthusiastically begun, we find ourselves in a pretty serious predicament. So we resort to the method of Turkey-Lurkcy, (1 guess you all remember the nuscry story). Ducky Lucky, upon being pointedly asked where she received her information replied, Gooscv-Lucv told me.” 1 guess Hcnny-Penny told her, Chickie-Little told llcnny-Penny, Rooster-Wooster told Chickie-Little. and as usual, the rumor was traced to a gentleman (of all people). So there, when we hear Women arc gossipers”. wc can, with a superior smile, ask, Who said so? —Juanita Baker THESE THINGS These things in life we count sweet: A child's small feet, Trust in God, The humble sod. A tosc serene, The garden's queen; A lowly flower with leaves aflame. That put vain honor all to shame. —Rebecca Milner [17]

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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]

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PEACE TWENTY YEARS No onr noticed him sitting there huddled against the park bench, dirty, ragged, and old. except a nearby policeman. Observing him casually, the policeman walked slowly over to him, pointed an accusing finger at him. and in a gruff voice said, “Move along, buddy, this ain't no place for you.” He gathered up his belongings and with occasional backward looks, shuffled along down Twentieth Street, crowded with throngs gathered to sec the Armistice Day Parade. As he edged along the crowd, he heard the jeers of boys and the slurring remarks cast for his benefit, but he kept on going. He had no time for such small matters. 11 is mind was filled with memories now twenty years old. Let the hands play; the hoys march. They hold no more glamor for him. He knows what war means. It isn’t the romantic thing that stories tell about. Hadn’t he been among the first to enlist when the call for men came? How proud he had been of his uniform and the shiny gun that rested on his shoulder. Hadn’t there been sighs from girls when he passed by? Yes—and kisses at the dock. Hut kisses didn't blot out the horror of the sights he had seen a few weeks later. Nor did the uniform stay tidy and clean. It was torn by barbed wire, and the mud was caked on it so thick that you couldn’t see the brass buttons he bad been proud of. He heard no bands, but the terrorizing music of bombs bursting in the air. He saw no marching men, but only those crawling on hands and knees in trenches—or those who crawled too far. These were the memories that war left to haunt him. Yes. he would move along and leave the parade for the gullible people who cheered the bands and marching men. —Clco Brown [IB]