Seven Hills High School - Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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4 i Milestone THEN WE SHALL KNOW Do you ever wonder- just wonder, What it is that lies beyond? Beyond the stars, beyond the blue, Beyond the bright, beyond the dark? Do you ever ponder on what you cannot know? What lies between the mists and winds? Why Time will never turn or stop? Why Life won't change to nothingness? Do you ever dream of what may be someday? Will l remember then this hour? Will l know then what lies beyond, And what are joy and sadness? Do you ever wonder what Fear can be? Wonder if gladness is real and alive? lf there truly is a life beyond? Wonder if we really live and die? Do you ever think that earth may crumble, And sky and all above may disappear? It is then that we shall know at last What lies beyond, what is life we and death. LONSDALE GREEN, '46 V, in, H gr - ff fx at

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Milestone High School Poem - Second Prize MSCI-IUBERT REMINDS ME OE A TREE IN WINTER A tall black silhouette: a cold, white sky, Long, lonesome branches and a mournful sigh. Priendless and freezing: a proud, mammoth tree. Long racking sobs blow the last leaves free. One crying heart and its music which was great. Fingers made by genius and a world made by hate. Cold, proud and hungry: a despairing soul Dying unwanted, unknowing, at its goal. BETTY CHAPMAN, '48 J ,N e.. WI Q' f' ' x at 'Nils , f' I' ., H High School Poem - Honorable Mention RED IS EOR COURAGE As though its life were not enough and had to be of brighter stuff Than that of which other states Are made, with forests green and fields -With beigey weeds and seeds of jutes- As though it had not been content with common lot which God had sent Her other friends whose hearts Were humble but not noble less Than those with race and grace as rootse- She bears a sign, and though you doubt, and think that it was made without I-Ier destiny's bright star As guide, or that she should in honor wear A branch with pain and shame as fruits- She wears it now and always will, though noise of civil strife is still And gone's the fuel on which it fed. And who's to say it's not a sign, When, looking 'neath her friendly pine, We Hnd that Georgia's soil is red. HARRIET BIERY, '46 page 88

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Milestone 7 ON TRAVELINC1 ON A DAY COACH How fortunate are those people who live in places obscure and uncivilized. who know nothing of the electric toaster, the steam-boat, or the railroad coach! I-low peaceful their lives: yet how barren! They could never experience the triumph the train traveler experiencs at that victorious moment when he has successfully tripped, stepped upon, and outrun at least three peace-loving individuals in a race for a seat. They could never know the pride a qualified traveler feels as he walks the length of the car with firm, deliberate steps, never once grasping desperately at the nearest arm, or tottering unbecomingly into some- body's lap. Perhaps you, as the traveler, have overlooked these little triumphs and successes, taking it all for granted-that is, a trip as a thing to be endured but not loved, void of all humor and experience. This theory is not true. Let us start from the beginning of the journey of enlightenment. You have known the mad rush for the last reservation on an airplane, then the hours standing in line at the Pullman office, only to find that the last seat is taken by the man directly in front of you, short, bald, and fatigued, who looks as though he should stay at home with his wife and ten kiddies, anyhow. There is, however, always the coach, and your friend in a not-too-distant city is expecting you. The day arrives for the trip. It is about five in the morning, and pitch black. You are sleepy and want to go back to bed. and the taxi hasn't come yet. Members of your family are clinging to you tearfully, but really anxious to get you out of the house and return to a semi- peaceful existence, without flying suitcases and ringing telephones. At last the taxi, minutes late, comes roaring down the street, to everyone's relief, It resembles a thing obviously thrown together by a disinterested car builder, with noticeably bad aim. No matter, it is a vehicle which will convey you to the station in Hfteen minutes, you hope. The station, a madhouse for millions, all hurrying, shoving, pushing, and yet all looking remarkably sanel The tide carries you to a gate where a man, obviously bored with the whole thing. calls out places in an unintelligible tongue. You stand with hundreds of people at the gate, scheming ways to get through Hrst, but as it happens, you are always last through. I have found though, that a sturdy suitcase held by the teeth, and a cumbersome golf bag over the shoulder helps a great deal in dividing the crowd for yourself. Once you are through, it is fairly easy to sprint ahead. You may make enemies for life, but a seat is practically assured for you. If sprinting is impossible, you'll just have to fight. I have already described the struggle for a seat. I shall presume that you are seated as comfortably as possible, and are heartily gloating at the numerous people you have upset in your flight down the length of the aisle. You are sitting, anxiously awaiting your companion. Dozens of people come straggling by before that one sits down next to you. Will it be a man or woman? XVill he be young and attractive? Will she be pleasant? Awaiting your companion is like opening a Christmas package, but the results aren't always the same. It is easy to strike up a conversation once your companion is seated. After a while he will undoubtedly say, Are you going far? The usual reply is Yes, I'm page 90