Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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r A Fantasy THE library door had closed upon the last visitor to the letter-writing contest. Immediately, there arose a soft flutter. From the neat rows of folders on the wall, a medley of gaily dad figures tripped down. The library buzzed with happy voices. Everyone was merry in the anticipation of a great time. Tables and chairs were pushed aside, and the frolic was on. Suddenly the great Caesar cried, “Set on; and leave no ceremony out.” With a lingering glance toward Viola, the Duke Orsino exclaimed, “If music be the foml of love, play on. Thus the dance began. Several numbers had been danced when a great commotion arose in the far end of the room. Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguccheek had started an argument over a dr nk with Stephano, who had been serving refreshments to the best of his staggering ability. Then Sir Toll) and Stephano tussled. “By my troth, quoth Sir Andrew, the f H)l hath an excellent breast.” Festc looked at Sir Toby, “His eyes do show his days are almost done. Hold thy peace, shouted Sir Andrew. Troth, sir, I can yield ye none without words. and off skipped Feste. In the meanwhile ladies had retired to one end of the room. Oli ia sat with her head held in haughty disapproval. Portia turned to Xcrissa and said in an undertone, O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. I his from Stephano, who had heard her. The music had ceased. More, more, I prithee, more, called Jaques. And once again the swaying figures glided over the floor. The hour was getting late. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father's,” said Petruchio. So. one by one. the guests sprang back into the I ook over which the judges had made so Much Ado.” 19 Emma Slockmar, 18.

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other shrill whistle and a puff of white smoke, which faded away as it disappeared behind the hill. Fifteen years had passed since the graduation of the three chums. Doctor Henry Wilson sat at his desk gazing at a telegram which lie had just received. He had made a great success as a doctor since his graduation, and had become famous as a surgeon. The telegram on the desk was from a doctor in another town, telling of a case which he was sending to him. When he first saw the new patient, a little girl of ten years, Dr. Wilson was struck by her resemblance to someone he had known. Who was it? Where had he seen that face before? But there was no time to waste. He must act at once. An examination showed him that her condition was very serious and that his only hope lay in the transfusion of blood. Her father offered to give the blood, but the doctor thought this unwise, so they decided to advertise for some one else. So it was that the next day on the front page of the newspaj er appeared the heading: “SI ,000 Paid to a Strong. Healthy Man for Some flood Blood.'' This caught the eye of a poor fellow sitting on a bench in the park. His suit was old and worn and his face covered with a heavy beard. “Gee, a thousand dollars! He whistled at the idea. “Why. if steamboats sold six for a nickel. I couldn’t afford to hear the whistle blow.” lie mused. “What would I do with £1,000? I’ll tr this anvwav.” So, putting the paper in his pocket, he set forth in the direction of the hospital. Late the next day tin- doctor sat quietly by the bed of his little patient. She was still unconscious. In another room was the poor fellow who had answered their advertisement. He had given his blood to the child, but lie, too. was unconscious from the operation. The father sat on the other side of the bed. The doctor looked from the child to the father, still puzzling over the resemblance. Suddenly a queer expression came over his face. He brightened at once. What is your name? he asked, turning to the father. “Davis. This laconic reply the father gave without looking up. “Fred Davis?” The Doctor spoke eagerly. Yes. replied the other, raising his head with a surprised look. They both looked at each other for a moment, dazed. “You, Henry?” Davis fairly shouted the words, forgetful for the- time of the unconscious child. The two men clasped hands joyfully; it was their first meeting in fifteen years. A faint groan brought them to themselves. They turned. The child was waking. Davis turned anxiously to Wilson, whose face brightened as he examined the girl. The operation had been successful. Two weeks later the girl was silting on the porch of the hospital convalescing, with the doctor and her father sitting close by, talking'over old times. Footsteps were heard in the hall. It was the poor man hobbling out to see the little girl whose life he had saved. I Ie was pale and haggard and had suffered a great deal from his operation. He stopped instantly at the door. He was amazed and looked blankly from the doctor to Mr. I)a is. Finally he spoke. 10

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in THE MEAHT 1IILE Summer and “What is so rare as a day in June?” have not, at this season of the year, yet received the thoughts of poetic inspiration. Poets are still lingering over the precious theme of Spring and Life’s beginning. Sophie E. Morgan, in her “Herald of Spring presents a realistic picture ol an early spring flower garden. The bright yellow jonquils are blooming again, All brimful of fragrance, so let us drain Their green and gold goblets, and joyfully sing, While sipping their nectar, a welcome to Spring! “In each golden chalice fond memories dwell, And each shining petal has something to tell Of old-fashioned gardens, where grandmothers’ beds Taught early jonquils to hold up their heads. “Undaunted by March winds, that bluster and blow, They smile and look up, as they swing to and fro; For down in the depth of each glittering cup Are the smiles of the spring-time of years garnered up! • A sincere appreciation of Spring characterizes Clifford Howard’s Sanctitude “My pen adrip with destined words, 1 harken to the April breeze. Thinking to trap the song of birds. The murmured joy of meadowed herds And Clod’s soft whispering in the trees. “But lo! a touch attunes my heart; A heavened communion stirs the air; And I, who thought with course art To play for Spring a minstrel’s part. Awake and fold my hands in prayer. 20