Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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T he Mirror SOLDIERS’ BURIAL GROUND What arc these? Lancs of white, Rows that once were men, Never to respond again To human touch— War’s deso ation! —Harvey Wilson WE LOSE WHEN WE WIN On the field of battle How the drums do rattle! But when all the slaughter’s done Is the battle won? Battle lines with fearful clamor How they startle with their glamor! But so fearful the cost, Is not the victory lost? —Dwight Her long WHY Why must we have war? To break the hearts of women, To kill our men? The mother’s farewell. The sweetheart’s kiss; Then men march into hell— Does humanity deserve this? —Frank Nelson [19]

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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]

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THE STORY TELLERS CHAMPIONS May the fifteenth! On a smooth sandy tennis court a drama was taking place. The contestants seemed well-skilled in the art of tennis. One was a tall muscular man playing with the grace of a ballet dancer. Before him darted an exceedingly fast lad of fifteen years. I 'he ball flew back and forth keeping time with the gleeful shouts of the boy. The man drove the ball to the back line. Then with the smashing forehand the small wonder player sent the ball into the farthest corner. I he man purposely let himself be caught off balance, missing the ball. “Well. Barron, do you know what you’ve done?” the man asked as he came forward. “Ves, bather, 1 have beaten you—James Watson, America’s tennis champion! That makes me as good as champion of America.” 1 he ex-champion’s face clouded; he had been watching this vanity of his son for some time. As he sat down on the spectators’ bench, his meditation was broken bv Barron. Father, is something worrying you?” Mr. Watson sighed and replied thoughtfully, es, son, I m afraid there is. Barron, I am worried about you. You play for the championship of your school Friday and. . . .” “Why, Dad, don’t you think I can win the match? After all I just beat you.” Barron went through the motion of a serve, “See, Father, my form is perfect.” A es, son. I’ll grant that, but you also need a clear bead. Barron, you arc cocky and that is one characteristic a champion doesn’t possess.” With a flourish of his racket. Barron said, “Dad, iust wait until Friday and I’ll show you whether I can win the championship or not. A strange look passed over Mr. Watson's face. He said, “Barron, my father once told me this, ‘If a man gains the whole world and loses his head, he has accomplished nothing of any importance. Remember that, son, and you will never lose in the game of life.” Mr. Watson went to the dressing room while Barron kicked an imaginary pebble off the court. Fridav came, and Batron Watson was named champion of his school, giving his opponent four games in three sets. The four years that followed were filled with work and glory for Barron, now possessor of the district, state and western coast championships. But Mr. Watson was still concerned about his son's growing vanity and desire for glory. Nevertheless he worked diligently with Barron, giving him the knowledge of tennis that a champion possesses. But Barron in his cock-sure manner paid little heed to his father’s warnings. Grantlon Brice, famous sportswriter, heralded Barron Watson as the most promising young tennis player of all times, and dubbed him the “Wonder Boy,” of tennis. He predicted also that Barron Watson would be the winner of the coming National Championship Tournament. [20]