Seven Hills High School - Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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Milestone gn 1? CDLF HANDS The human hand is a remarkable thing, for it has done practically everything to make the world what it is today. For instance, think what the author's hand has done. Books, newspapers, magazines, stories, and poems have all come from the author's hand. All the plays we read and see and hear on the radio were once laboriously written out by the hand of some talented person. And oh, what a dull world this would be without the artist's hand, which has created for us the beautiful paintings with which we decorate our homes and books and magazines. For some of us, the only time we ever see glistening snow or burning sand dunes, rolling plains or jagged mountains, western prairies or southern cotton Helds is through the medium of pictures. Music, too, has been created for us by an altruistic hand, the hand of the composer who has written songs, operas, symphonies, oratorios, chorales, and a million other types of music of varied temperament and construction. And the hand of the musician, perhaps pianist or violinist, has delivered all of these from their virtually useless and imprisoned state on paper to the freedom of the air and to our ears. But the hands of the author, artist, musician, and composer, while adding to our culture and enjoyment of life, hardly may be termed as 'lnecessary to life. Consider the doctor's hand-the hand which has had many, many years of training, the hand which during an opera- tion can save or throw away the insecure life of the patient. These lingers have done more for humanity and happiness and life than perhaps any others in the world. The hearts and hopes of many a suffering man, woman, and child have been spiritually lifted by the knowledge that the calm hand of a trained surgeon is ready to cure them. Yet, busy as hands are today, they were even busier yesterday, when practically all industries were carried on by hand. There were few machines and factories. Think of the rough, tough hands of the cobbler which not only had laboriously to sew up and nail together the shoes and boots but also had to cut out the heavy leather to begin with. Think of the quick lingers of all the women who spun their own yarn as well as page 94

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Milestone Jenny put the roses in a vase and felt her heart jump with excitement ahead of her. She felt as if she had known Johnny for a long time and yet she had no idea of what he would look like, how he would act, She put on a pale blue dress to match her eyes, and the mirror reflected a beautiful girl, a happy girl: but for a moment she wondered why it couldn't have been Jenny going to meet Andy instead of Sylvia to meet Johnny. For Sylvia, sight unseen, from Johnny, sight unseen. Meet me at the letter desk at the U.S.O. at nine. As Jenny walked down the hall at the U.S.O., she tried to picture Johnny, wondered what he would say, what she would say. She was about to see for the first time the man who had been so dominant in her thoughts for the past two years, along with the unforgettable memory of one dead. As she approached, she saw the figure of a tall soldier standing alone at the letter desk with his back to her. She quietly walked up behind him, her heart pounding wildly, and said as calmly as she could, Hello, l'm Sylvia. He turned quickly, and taking both her hands in his, answered, And I'm Joh ------ He didn't finish. They stood hand in hand staring at each other, unknowing, On her face was a jumbled look of fear, surprise, and disbelief: on his was plainly written a deeply confused expression of a man who, once dead, suddenly Hnds himself living again. Tears were in the eyes of both. He took her in his arms. Andy, My Jenny! LONSDALE GREEN, '46 TY-fa Q! E , , y , W F5 i , f , X ' reid. CHQICE Oh, you may pray to heaven To make your dream be real, To make it really tangible, A thing that you can feel, But I will pray as earnestly To make mine stay the same, A dream, when real, is shattered, And dream is not its name, BETTY CHAPMAN, '48 page 93

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Milestone knitting and weaving it. And even further back in time, the monks in their secluded monasteries used to copy whole books by hand and illustrate them as well. How the hands of the serfs of those times must have cried out in pain! They had no modern tools and inventions and machines to assist them in their hopeless lot of scratching their very existence from the soil. But hands are more important than just for the work they do: one simple action may decide the fate of millions of people. For instance, when the atom bomb was released from the airplane by simply pressing a small button, millions of people suddenly were killed, and many extremely important questions were aroused. And just think what a simple goodbye wave of the hand can mean and has meant to millions many times in the past. And doesn't one's hand take a tremendously important step when it signs its owner's signature to a pledge or agreement which must then be kept? But the most decisive hand of all is C1od's hand by which this world was created: The sea is His and He made it: and His hands prepared the dry land. Is this not the hand which leads us all? ELIZABETH CARSON, '48 A 5 WN L h e 6 or A CHRISTMAS VISION To-night Marianne couldn't get to sleep. It was three days before Christmas, and Marianne hoped that holiday would never come. She hated the thought of Christmas alone. On Thanksgiving Day her husband, Johnny, had been killed in a hunting accident. Marianne wished she were dead, too. She was dead: that is, she was, inside. Marianne ate and slept, but only because she had to, She hated everybody, even her three-year-old son, Dickie, Dickie was so like his father? The way he walked. the way he held his head, his eyes, and his curly hair, all of these traits were like Johnny's. Dickie didn't, couldn't, under- stand about his father. He kept asking, 'lWhen is Daddy coming home, Mommy? And what would Marianne tell her coming child? How could she make the baby know its father, when it had never known him, and would never see him or be seen by him? While all of these thoughts were chasing each other across Marianne's brain, she fell into a troubled and restless sleep. Mrs. Hopkins, Marianne's mother, was so worried about herl Marianne was so uninterested in everything going on around her! Mrs. Hopkins had hoped that if she decorated the house and put up the tree it might make her daughter feel a little better: but, no, Marianne page 95