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Page 17 text:
By Kenneth Tipton
When leaves have dressed in brown and green and gold
And summer's fragrant breath has breathed its last
Then winter's breath is a chilly, killing blast.
The last of summer's flowers stand brave and bold
Soon they will bow to winds so strong and cold
As others did in many seasons pastg
When birds to southern homes are flying fast
Then aged Winter reigns like kings of old.
Like human lives the seasons make their change,
From bright and blissful days to bleak and bare,
When youth defies old age to take its place.
If We just had our lives to rearrange,
Like flowers in the winter's wind we'd dare
Old age to take our place in life's long race.
Fulility of Fame
By Evelyn Reade
I hope before I die to have achieved
An act by which my memory will survive,
Remaining in the minds of those alive
As compensation, when of life relieved,
And reason for my being. 'Tis believed
That all, when dying, ultimately strive
Before those angels garbed in black arrive
To stir a memory in those bereaved.
But what is there in leaving lasting fame
Since fame is futile in the face of death?
And usually the world forgets your name
Almost as soon as He has stilled your breathg
And, too, what glory lies in living on
When those who knew and loved you, too,
THE MISSILE Pagetlurteen
Page 16 text:
Cry of a Simple Heart
By Bess Windham
They'd paint with words sweet songs for their delight,
And though they are great, they sound to me in vain:
For I would say this night is as each night-
The moon has comeg tomorrow there'11 be rain.
They'd say the moon rose jeweled in the sky,
And is shining caught in golden haloed rings:
I'd say the moon is like a fire up high-
The heavens are deep: the fragrant darkness clings.
Inspired their words would paint the starlit way-
The moonlight gleaming like a silken sheeng
My bursting heart would only leaping say,
"I do not know. Oh speak! What does it mean?"
Oh, I'll not listen when their thoughts take wings-
For I can only simply praise these things.
By Catherine Wyatt
We grew up together, she and Ig
We walked and played together while we grew.
She-did all the planningg I stood by,
And oft I marveled at the things she knew.
She mapped and planned her future day by day,
And all the things she did, she did so well.
Always in her work and in her play
In all she undertook, she would excelg
Always strove to reach some higher goal,
Strained toward another rung in the ladder of fame.
While I, I captured nothing to extol,
Aspired to nothing, coveted no name.
'Twas thus we grew together side by side,
How very strange it seems: I livedg she died.
Pagetwelve THE MISSILE
Page 18 text:
By Catherine Wyatt
C OME, on a brisk October afternoon after six hours of school, and
ii l then hot buns. I know of nothing that I like better than to sit
down to their enjoyment.
The smell of them travels a long way. It meets me at the
,, corner. Then I know for certain and sure that the pan has just
been removed from the oven. How the thought hastens my foot-
steps! I-Iow it shortens the stretch to the kitchen door! Just let me into
the kitchen. That is as far as I care to go, for cinnamon buns should be
eaten in the warm spring atmosphere which their cooking has created.
Give me a seat on the kitchen stool with my toes hooked behind the side
rungs. Lay the spatula handy to chip in some extra bits of goo and a-ah!
I take one. Goody-good! "Just two," I say to the uneasy thought
of my tendency toward weight. After that I stop counting. The only way
you will ever find out exactly how many I ate is to take a sworn statement
from each member of the family as to how many he or she ateg add in the
remainder, if there is any, subtract the sum from the total.
Sometimes when I visit my grandfather his roving eyes center on
me. I know exactly what's coming. "Your Aunt Belinda Betty Jane
weighed three hundred pounds. Catherine is going to take after her."
And then the ghost of the last batch of cinnamon buns rises up to haunt me.
Shades of my ancestors! I should worry about my Aunt Belinda.
Perhaps her glands went wild. Perhaps she never saw a cinnamon bun.
So bring on the next batch. Hot, spicy cinnamon buns, all gooey with
brown sugar! Have I made your mouth water? No? Then my powers
of description are a failure. Oh! You said yes? Oh! Then come around
next baking day.
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Page f011rfG011 THE MISSILE
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