Phillips High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

Page 31 text:

The Mirror THE WANDERING MOON With the music of his lute, Apollo wooed the fair Diana in her sable celestial palace. The stars grouped themselves together in constellations to form chandeliers whose soft light filled the spacious halls. Each night, as the enchanting Goddess descended to meet her lover, the shadow of a beautifully formed woman danced down the stairs behind her. At length the God in regal robes of red and amber brought a companion. Hymen, laden with happy omens. During the ceremony he bestowed romance and congeniality on the blissful immortals. Two fair offsprings were born to Diana, a sturdy son, the image of his father, and a dainty daughter, as like her mother as the song of the lark is l;ke the soft music of a bubbling brook. So illuminant were they that they were named Sunlight and Moonlight. For many years the white dove of Peace spread her protecting wings over their home. Once, however, Jupiter in anger at the greed of mortals, hurled toward earth a thunderbolt that tore asunder their castle. In the confusion that followed. Sunlight closely walked in the footsteps of Apollo, and the smooth small hand of Moonlight tightly clung to Diana’s. After the storm, the Goddess and her delicate daughter began seaching for the other two. On and on across the skies they walked and still continue to pursue their journey. Sometimes they almost overtake them; often they are far away. When weariness overcomes Diana she pauses to lay her silver tresses on a fleecy cloud and dream. After a moment of refreshing sleep the stately Goddess always arises and wanders forever on along the pathless void of firmament. Once each month she and her daughter slip back to the rums of the palace hoping to find Apollo. Grief anew overtakes the chaste maiden; again she dons a black mourning stole over her flowing white robe. Hav'ng failed to find these loadstars of day, they again gravely venture forth. So wrapt in thought is the sedate lady that she does not know when Zephyr steals from her fair shoulder the cape loosely caught at her throat. On, on across the heavens everlastingly Diana, so devout in prayer, so steadfast in hope, wanders in search of her lost God. —Jean West THE LIBERATION OF HARMONY Harmony had lain for sometime in the gloomy, unpleasant surroundings of the gruesome dungeon of discord. The jailkeeper, a sombre fellow named Clangor, was a very unsociable individual who took great delight in denying Harmony’s slightest request. So, with this daily fatiguing routine, he found no inspiration to lift his voice in song. In fact, so long had he lain chained with a restriction of silence, that he was completely forgotten bv everyone except the jailer and a boyhood friend. At this stage of his oblivion a new king, Dominant the Seventh, ascended the throne. Among the counselors of the new king was Melody, the friend of Harmony, who told the young ruler of the plight of his cherished friend. He related to him the story of how Harmony had been incarcerated, how he had enlivened his natal village with his gay song, how the church had benefited by the added beauty of his notes and how he had romped in the fields with Melody in his youth. On hearing this appealing speech, the sovereign ordered Chord and Voice, two attendants, to free and bring out the ‘‘hidden soul” who had been so greatly wronged. Melody and Harmony were then united never again to he separated. The ruler and his courtiers perceived that Melody improved his thoughts as his ideas were blended with those of Harmony. The chains were loosed! Harmony was free! [29] —Malcolm Patterson

Page 30 text:

T he Mirror “Milady’s hat hangs on one ear, Or drops low on one eye In color it may cause a tear Or just provoke a sigh. Its shape and size are nondescript— It looks like a chicken when half-picked.” Seeing the girls' hats as they leave school, I’m convinced that from being a part of women's apparel whose original purpose was to protect the head, the honnet or hat has become simply an excuse for a feather, or a pretext for a sprig of flowers. But enough of the women, let's turn to the men. “Apparel oft proclaims the man.” You can tell at a glance whether a young man is the Beau Brummel type. Everyone has heard of Brummel, who set the fashion for English men for 21 years. He was very fastidious about his appearance, and dressed, as Bryon said, “with exquisite propriety.” Phillips has those who are trying to follow in Brummel’s very well turned footsteps. Maybe the next young man will be the athletic type sauntering through the halls, usually dressed casually to prove that he is not “sissified” even in dress, and more often displaying a big “P across a wide expanse of chest. Occasionally we catch a glympse of the boy in the business suit. 1 his one always delights my rye—dressed simply and neatly in a suit with a nice white shirt and a modest tie. Excellent, I say! Color, too, proclaims the man (or it docs in Phillips) for they have turned to colors hoping to achieve an even more fashionable ward-robe. Their shirts arc bright and would you believe it—designed! The more colors one can get in one outfit, the better. The coats arc nipped in at the waist; padded at the shoulders for the Hercules effect; pleated to be dressy; double-breasted for Fashion’s sake. 1 he trousers too, are pleated and usually creased to perfection. Pies and handkerchiefs of the same tone ami material arc quite the thing. Shoes are of every color from a sort of orange to black; first they’re pointed, then square, changing every season. The informal shoe is the moccasin, not because the boys have the astuteness of Indians or the shrewdness of a Hawkcve, but for comfort. All in all the fashionable men seem to feel with Pope anti the women that: In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold, Alike fantastic, if too new or old, Be not the first by whom the new is tried. Nor vet the last to lay the old aside.” —Gene Smith MY SHADOW My shadow and I are pals; When I have a sunny disposition, He walks with me. Lighthearted, funloving, full of glee; But when to a cloudy mood I lean, My shadow with me no more is seen. [28] —Tom Hunt

Page 32 text:

T he Mirror THE BOOK LOVER These we have loved: That house where Hep .ibah. In rusty silk and cap frayed with years of wear, Moved as a ghost among the spectres of the past; where Gentle Pherbe, fair as the rose beside her window sill. Spent hours with Clifford, her voice dispelling the chill Of the House of the Seven Gables; the vision Of Sidney Carton nobly fulfilling his sublime decision; Bulfinch’s legends of ancient myths and gods: The spirit of Helen Keller struggling 'gainst these odds Set forth so vividly in “The Story of My Life”; Fcnnimore Cooper’s stories of the strife Of silent-footed Mohicans; and other volumes long held dear: The struggle of Hugo’s tragic hunchback with his queer, Misshapen body, and soul too full of selfless love; the human touch Which Sara Hay bestows to Bible tales we've heard so much; The life of Fanny Kemble, which like a golden thread Links the names of which we have read. We have loved the beauteous strength of Edna Millay, And Tennyson’s Idylls of that long-past day When Arthur held his court. The love we hear For Goldsmith’s quaint and charming Vicar can compare ()nly with what we feel for Tommy and the simple folk of Thrums. Ever heating in our brains we hear the drums Along the Mohawk; oftentimes we almost seem To see Gulliver and the Lilliputians of his dream. Sometimes we catch the odor of fresh venison in Sherwood Where Friar 'Fuck jokes with Robin; or we wish we could Sport with Titania and all the fairies of her band, And catch Puck the mischief-maker who's ever out of hand. While remembering Silas Marncr intent on hoarding gold, Ami thinking of selfish Scrooge and the carol Dickens told. We suddenly discover that playing through our minds Are some of Ogden Nash’s musings with their lilting, tilting rhyme . And beside the volumes worn where Little Women dwell, Are Milne’s children’s verses; then we fall beneath the spell Of that Pair of Blue Eyes Thomas Hardy knew, Or laugh with immortal Will at the Taming of the Shrew. Oh, a thousand others have claimed our leisure hours, And a thousand others still to meet—flowers To color the drabness of our days. “Oh. never a doubt but somewhere we shall wake,” And though remembering these dear ones, shall make “New friends, now strangers ...” If we must leave these we have loved with all Our hearts and minds, to answer the call Of hooks yet unknown, may others take up our dearest loves, and cry “ These they have loved—and they shall never die! . —Cornelia Banks. [30]