Seven Hills High School - Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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- g Milestone If , ' A X -It I T-- fi 1 if i W lt' . 'll TPM' Intermediate Poetry - Honorable Mention WHO I SI-IGULD LIKE TO BE Now I should like to be a boy, And perhaps I'd go by the name of Roy. Then I wouldn't haue to be prim and properg I'd just run and play with my little Cocker. If I were a boy and not a girl, I wouldn't euen look at a curl. I'd chase the bees and butterflies, And listen to the birds' cries. I'd be free to roam the woods alone, Until for such things I was outgrown. ANNE Wooos, '52 AN ELF Like a dew drop in May, He watched from the bay, He was dressed in clothes Like an elf, I'd say, With a little jacket, pretty and gray. The little elf had a cute little face, He walked at a perfect pace: He had a cute little nose That looked like a rose, He was loved by his friends And the fairies too, Who always dance On the morning dew, ANN HAYES, '50 High School Story - First Prize THE PICTURE The quiet pat of soft soles and impatient chatter of high heels sounded on the hollow marble floors. All through the day, from the time the sun Hrst came through the high east windows, splashing on the long wooden benches and white stone, until it reached the west and page 69

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Milestone il' 4 Q 5 p- 1 LIKE MY SLEEPY DOLL This is about a tiny, little girl Who doesn't get into a great big Whirl When asked which of her toys she Likes the very best. I like my sleepy-doll, she answers IfVith a smile. II like my sleepy-doll, eyes gleaming All the while. 'I like my sleepy-doll with the closed Up eyes, Not the doll that when wounded up, cries I QI farm .:,..N ft Iflglu I -Qs: i ' ' h 'ix ww I like my sleepy-doll with the curly Grin, Not the soldier what is made 0' tin. I like my sleepy-doll, so cuddly and Warm, Not even my baby-doll with the lostea' Arm, I like my sleepy-doll whose fur's made O' blue. Oh, how I like my sleepy-doll! Don't you? JEAN ZEIGLER, '51 Intermediate Poetry - Second Prize WINTER IN THE COUNTRY Spacious waves Of billowing white As far as the eye can see, Whose purity is broken Here and there By man or tree. But life is In the minority: It is winter and snow That reign. And there is no sound Over the quiet earthg All is simple, And white, And plain. JILL CHAPMAN, '50 page 68

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Milestone threw the long, weird shadows of moulding armour from one end of the gallery to the other, the people came and went, some hurrying through for a hasty look at more well-known pictures, others moving slowly, intently, through the halls, with studied observation of every work, large or small. Whatever it may have been that brought him there, each Iinally found himself looking at a certain picture. Sooner or later, each one saw it. It was not a startling thing. It was no jewel by Rommey, Rembrandt, or Van Gogh, It had no heavy, ornate frame: but before it, every footstep halted. Some people stopped and studied as if trying to discover the secret of its tremendous power: others looked: then looked away. Perhaps each was afraid that someone might read what was in his face. A young woman, guide-book in hand, dropped her dime in the turnstyle and entered the gallery. She stood still for a moment, watching the shadows on the floor, and then, whimsically, she followed a long, thin shadow, formed by the bright green feather on her hat. At the end of Gallery B. she stopped, and, opening her guide-book, she read, Number 372 - Evening near Rockwell - a contemporary American painting in oil by Henry C. Evans. This picture represents the culmination of years of study at home and abroad. Through the harmonious combining of human study and landscape technique, a remarkable impression is obtained. It seems to show impending disaster. The girl's hands fell to her sides as she lifted her eyes to the picture before her. There it was, lt was just as she had seen it before: not as she had really seen it, but as she had often imagined it. She knew without looking closely that the figure beneath the tree had her blond hair and graceful figure. Eagerly she examined every tree and meadow. The picture, itself. was the same, but the sunshine which had made it bright for her was not there. Her heart and mind had been her light when her eyes were closed. Every leaf had been drawn for her with words even as it was placed on canvas: and this picture had been her hold on hope, through months of pain and waiting, until, Hnally, light came to her not only from within, but also from the sun, Suddenly she realized that what had been described in love's brightness to give her hope, had been painted in despair, It had been as promised: no correspondence or contact until the long months were over and she would see him with her eyesg but what did the picture mean? She hurried back to the information desk where postcards and reproductions were sold: and. putting the guide-book on the desk she pointed to the name of the painter of No. 372. Could you tell me where I could ind Mr. Evans? she asked, I understand that most of the artists are in town for the exhibit. The Clerk stopped counting a stack of Renoir prints and, reaching under the desk, handed her a folded, two-day-old newspaper. 'Tm surprised that you haven't heard, he said, Mr. Evans died two days ago. Had some kind of unusual sickness. They say that he knew that he was going to die when he painted that picture. Queer looking sort of thing, isn't it? It gives me the creeps-. HARRIET BIERY, '46 page 70