Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

Page 9 text:

PERSONALITIES POPSICLE MAN At midday alter summer classes, my best fiiend and 1 delighted to stop while waiting for the street car. to exchange a cheery greeting with little black ten-year-old William Dean, who sold popsicles on the corner of Eighth Avenue and I wentv-fourth street. He never made the sale of the frozen confections to us without promising timidly yet sincerely that he would do a few step.; or the new dance, “truckin After much persuasion he would finally swing into the lazy rhythm for a few steps, only to become immediately embarrassed by the stares of people along the street and our enthusiastic laughter which displayed our full appreciation of his natural talent. William was assured of our patronage. We wove our way through the groups of hurrying, chattering students to the backward, frail and undernourished figure, usually-leaning against a tree trunk, one hand on the push cart handle, the other dangling a cheap hell which rendered a clicking sound at intervals. We used to remark about the jealous glances of the other venders, when they became aware that we only patronized the insignificant looking boy who made the least effort to sell his commodity. Once, after the crowd had passed and the “popsicle men” had moved on toward the locations where each thought hr might do best, we stood wearily in the sizzling sun waiting for the street car, listening to the timid yet amusing remarks of William in answer to our simple question-. An aged Italian vender, with a sling of his large sinewy arm. muttered in a commanding voice a bit of profanity, a demand that William move on to town. William started with a ierk. hi- brown complexion greying a hit. Reaching for the handle of his push cart, he hurried away to the middle of the street. He trudged on. once turning hack with an anxious glance at the man. 1 wonder whether he was too frightened to see our sympathetic yet startled expressions. —Elizahcth Gallops THE VENDER Although the vender plies his trade In sun and in rain, Content with very little gain. His day brightly proceeds. For the weather-worn man on the corner With papers tucked under his arm. Enjoys many who pass his post With their smiles and gay words of accost. Selling papers to meet his needs Is only a part of the vender’s life— Understanding people at a glance, Tempers his hardship And creates romance. r 71 —Fred Orange

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PEACE Twenty Years....................................... Clco Brown Soldiers’ Burial Ground............................. Harvey Wilson We Lose When We Win....... Dwight Herlong Why................................................ Frank Nelson THE STORY TELLERS Champions Bruce Wilson Memories .............................Mary Elizabeth Brake Let Me Tell You! Harry Rives A Vagabond ...................................... Eva Lee Frederick The Ghost Walks ................................ Marjorie Dolvin THE PAST Julius C;i sar—Mock Heroic Version of class of 1921, Modernized by Ben F. Heyward ••■■■ Class of 1939 Wednesday Ruth Kirkland School Days Sam Culotta It’s All in Fun .......................... George Postell Current Events Class Frank Nelson Dummy............................................. Harry Thomson THE FUTURE Congratulations, Seniors! Catherine Worthington The Road to Success .............................. Layurah Thomas A New Leaf Reviewed................................ Frances Brown Tomorrow ......................................... Ben F. Heyward SENIOR SECTION Officers and Committees President’s Address—Today Ross Martin, Jr. Senior Class Poem—To One and All Frcida McCarter Senior Class Oration—Facing the World I oday Gray C. Buck, Jr. [6 |

Page 10 text:

T me Mirror THE PROFESSIONAL Conventional black oxfords and black cotton stockings emerged from Room 117. The oxfords moved forward with tiny, faltering steps then blindly stumbling. “Poor, poor sweet Mrs. Willoughby was dead. Why did she have to die? Such a dear old lady with silvering hair—iust like Mother’s.” Each little step, falling unconsciously after the other, on down the corridor. Noisily the door of Room 117 opened. Out bounded conventional black oxfords and black cotton stockings. Light springy steps, almost gay, bounded down the corridor. “Well, that’s over with. The old fussy cat—serves her right. Crying and whimpering around like a young pup just because someone spilled hot lemonade down her back.” Down the length of the corridor strode the black oxfords. Noiselessly the door of Room 117 opened and closed. Conventional black oxfords and black cotton stockings, but this time an even, unhurried tread down the corridor. The family must be notified. Too bad. some member of the family couldn’t have been with her. It all happened so quickly. Doctor Watson had been so sure; but one never can tell. People go on dying. Make them comfortable while they arc here. Hut when they go, there will be others.” Professional footsteps moved quietly and quickly down the quiet corridor. —Mary Drake r«]