Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

Page 8 text:

THE MISSILE Published by the Students of the Petersburg High School Vol. I. MARCH. 1912 nTs of tlje ai wo hours ago it was the most beautiful, calm, peaceful spot in the world. Then, a crystal brook rippled merrily beneath the shelter ing limbs of the primeval forest ; then, the rustling trees cast their graceful shadows upon the sun-flected undergrowth ; and, then, the soft, green, untrodden grass swayed silently to and fro as if keeping time to the songs of the birds. Only two hours ago peace reigned in the woody dell. Now war, destructive war, held sway. The songs of the birds were now supplanted by the sound of arms, the whistling of shells, the rattle of muskets, the shouts of the victors, the cries of the conquered. Amidst the din and uproar, among the bursting shells, whizzing bullets and splintering trees, now in one place, now in another, a man, or rather a youth, rushed up and down the retreating lines, striving in vain to rally his fleeing country- men. He turned his youthful, care-worn face to his men, lifted his left hand and brushed away a streak of blood that was slowly trickling from his bandaged forehead, waved again that sword that had never known defeat, and with tears in his eyes he begged the terror-stricken soldiers to make a stand. A bullet struck him and, with a last wave of his sword, he sank to the earth with a moan. A private leaned over the captain, raising a canteen to the dying officer’s lips. The captain’s eyes slowly opened ; his lips twitched and the private inclined his ear nearer to catch the broken words. As the older man listened, tears dimmed his eyes. Suddenly the cap- tain gave a gasp and clutched at his breast as if to hold within

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CdiiangPB he last gold rays of ev’ning’s setting sun Add lustre to the sky’s pure azure blue ; Fair tokens of another day’s work done, By workers, proud or humble, false or true. And when the last tint fades behind the hill. All Nature slumbers, and the Earth is still. The last dry leaf perched high up in the tree Is downwad hurled by Autumh’s piercing blast ; Sad thoughts come to the mind in reverie Of unreturning days, now long since past. The shriveled leaf, dropped in the tiny rill. Gives certain warning of bleak Winter’s chill. The last small swallow southward wings his flight ; From nest and summer home he flies away. To linger long in tropic climate bright. Till fresh and sw ' eet comes Spring’s inviting day. A change on far and distant shore until Homeward bound, he comes with music shrill. The last breath goes, the soul of man takes flight From Earth’s low habitation to arise To Heavenly homes, ten thousand times more bright, Where friends await, and true love never dies. A change of rest from care, of good from ill. In all eternal mercy, ’tis God’s will. M. C. Sarrison.

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THE MISSILE him his ebbing life; but he failed and his spirit slipped his grasp and fled to its God. The private looked upon the peace- ful face of his dead commander and, then, turned his eyes toward the enemy. They were nearly upon him ; he turned and fled. Ere he had gone a dozen steps, a whizzing bullet struck him down and the secret of the dead lay with the dead. The next day a nameless cross of wood was raised above the fresh grave of a nameless hero, and Nature set about to heal the bruises of w ' ar. Man in a few lioims had destroyed the beauty of a place that Nature had been centuries in decorating. After a few years, grass and wild flowers adorned the lonely grave in the calm, peaceful dell ; and the brook murmured a dirge for the dead. iy. jfc ?{C Years passed. Again the shady dell was broken by the sound of human voices, and a group of merry children scampered among the sun-patched grass, picking flowers and laughing aloud in their childish glee. With them was a woman • — a v oman who must at one time have been beautiful. Their maiden aunt set about preparing lunch while these care-free children rushed off for another game of hide-and-seek. She was Avalking across to the little stream to get some water when, suddenly, her eyes fell upon the loAvly mound. She looked and sighed. Then brushing av ay the tears that forced themselves into her eyes, she moved on with sunken head, tov ard the babbling brook. Something irresistible, however, drew her back to the side of the grave. As she went, she tore a piece of paper from a little book that she always carried with her, and wrote something upon it. For a moment she stood there, crumpling the paper in her hand. The forgotten youth rushed in her face ; she was beautiful again. Suddenlv she fell forward across the grave and, when the horrified children returned, they found their aunt dead. Older people were hastily summoned and they found in the tightly clasped hand of the dead woman a piece of paper.