Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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10 THE MISSILE. “Don’t you see how much good it has done me ? Just feel my arm; and it’s payment enough to see how beauti- ful the place is, and to realize it’s all my own work, don’t you see?” “Well, now, I don’t. But you say so; so I reckon it’s all right. I tell you now, Barbara, I guess I’m an old bear, but your flowers have made me realize how such beautiful things help a body; and now only by the sight of beauty do I realize how sordid was my life before.” And Barbara smiled happily to see the result of her work. Ida Routh, ’i6. THE WHISPERING TREES. he beautiful June day was slowly coming to ic I I 2 a close — one of those days which make all people thankful to be alive. But the close of the day was more glorious than the day itself, if that were possible. The cool, re- freshing breeze which comes with night relieved the intense heat which was present in the day, and the shadows from the tall, massive trees lent a soft appearance to the cozy, quaint little village of Oakland. This village, you must bear in mind, prided itself upon its trees; and this was a worthy pride, for it seemed more than ordinarily blessed with nature’s prized gift. In fact the main street appeared like a beautiful grove when the trees on either side seem- ed to try to meet their lofty heads in the gentle breeze, especially when they heard bits of conversation from the village gossips; for then they would assent or disagree in their nodding way.

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THE MISSILE. d when he was told of the plan to beautify the city, he im- mediately raised some objections. Then, “See here, Bobby, why don’t you do it yourself, if you’re so anxious about it? I’ll give ten dollars. Let’s see how much you can do with it.” So the next day saw a man in the yard cleaning up. Later, Barbara had flower beds marked off and the whole yard prepared for the reception of the seeds. She plant- ed seeds in all the beds and plants in a few. There were all manner of sweet, old-fashioned flowers — pinks, sweet Williams, bleeding hearts, phlox, heliotrope, mignonette, and columbines were put near posts, and some quick- growing vines in a trellis before the porch. All through the growing months the flowers were tended faithfully. But not once did the girl outside see the old face inside watching her, with Juggins near by instantly to remove him if Barbara looked up. By summer the place was a mass of bloom and beauty. The grass-plots were fresh and green and well mowed, and the flowers were in bloom. The place reminded him of a time when he was young and handsome and well, and he had had a companion in the old house, — the girl, his wife, who had died so youngi He felt very much softened and saddened by his memories, and welcomed a step in the hall which he recognized as Barbara’s. They talked for a while; then, after a short silence, Mr, Edwards said: “Barbara, you said last winter that it would do me good to have flowers around. You were right. And more, they have shown me something I never re- member seeing before, — some one trying to help some one else, without helping herself one bit in doing it: and — ’’ “But it did help me, Mr. Edwards !” exclaimed the girl.

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THE MISSILE. 11 On this particular June night the trees seemed unusu- ally eager to come nearer each other, for they were straining even their sturdy trunks. And no wonder — this was a day of all days. Nothing so extraordinary ever happened to such a quiet, secluded little village. The large, old-fashioned white house which sat far back in the most beautiful yard imaginable was to be occupied at last, and still more marvelous, by Mr. Hartley, the millionaire. Mr. Hartley and his only son, Phillip, had decided to come here to remain through the warm summer month, July, leaving Mrs. Hartley and Helen, Phillip’s only sister, in New York. They had travelled to their heart’s content and upon hearing of the little village, Oakland, where peace and quiet reigned, they sought this refuge from the social whirl of New York. It is needless to say the peo- ple of Oakland were proud to boast that Mr. Hartley and his son were honoring their village by a whole month’s stay there. Do you wonder at the trees being moved ? Now among the other people in Oakland there lived in a small cottage Mr. Craighton, a man commonly known in the village as “the poor blind man,” and his only child, indeed his all, Mercer. Life for Mercer was not every- thing pleasant; on the contrary, it was the reverse. But her character was as beautiful as she herself was, and she thought not of what she had not, but was thankful for what she had. At the death of her mother, when she was sixteen (she was eighteen at the time of this story), her father and herself moved to Oakland, where they could live comfortably on the sum he had accumulated before his misfortune. Mercer was one of many others who were curious to see Phillip, the millionaire’s son, for report had it that he