Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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THE MISSILE 66' THREE POEMS By Saxrah Downing I. Life In Three Stages Youth Youth is a rosebud in a mauve vase- just an innocent air and a wondering face. Life is as yet a dark, mysterious thingg Nothing more to do than hear the birdies sing- So why worry? Knowledge When knowledge comes, they tire of the vase- With a knowing air and a smug, knowing face. Energetic, restless, want all things newg The extreme of everything- Not stale? It'll do! But why hurry? Contentment A more settled age-back to the vase With steps not so springy, but a willing face. Light-hearted and gay-the day's work done. Pleased, contented, like a cat in the sun- Nice and purry. II. The Voice of the Cataract I am a crashing cataract Careening madly down from dizzy heightsg I strike my beholders full of awe As they watch the sun turn me into gleaming lights I'm not like my sister, the brook. She is dressed in a silvery gown of foamy lace, And she gayly sings and dances all day With carefree heart and flashing, laughing face. My eddies swirl in food for me, For my crushing jaws are eager for new prey, And once a thing is in my grasp, I send it hurtling down with small delay.

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C6 95 SITTING ON -TOP OFTHE WORLD FEBUARY CLASS CLASS SOPHOMOR5 fqx

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THE MISSILE When my relentless feat is done, My boom of triumph thuds on the murky air. What fiendish delight it is to me To see my victim lying in my lair! III. Prometheus' Gift A hearth-fire makes a cheery spot On a dreary, rainy dayg And as for me I'll cast my lot VVith this companion gay. lt jumps, it romps, it leaps, it swirls In a happy, -merry lit, It gives its skirts such gay, mad twirls For my own benefit. Red-golden, impish, naughty flame Billowy, Wraith-like rift- VVhy was Prometheus to blame For his so cheerful gift? Q? BLACK BEAR 25 By James Boloney! Humbug! said the old captain of our Hying squadron, taking his aviator's cap off and looking intent- ly at the listening group. I came in just in time to hear those last words. There was our whole squadron as- sembled around the fireplace in our dear old captain's shack. I had just landed with the mail from Oregon, and seeing a group in the hut I came to the conclusion that I would stay with the gang. So there we were listening to our captain tell one of his yarns. He had been an old hunter before he was an aviator, and when he got start- ed on one of his Indian stories, we never interrupted. You think you know something ? he went on in his deep rolling voice. You with your modern means of warfare, your Winchesters, your revolvers? Humbug! There are no men among you. The old days when man met man Hemphill are gone, and some real men died with them. Boloney! Shucks! Humbugf' Then you do not think that aviators are real men ? my co-pilot, Tom Young, asked. Wal, Tom, I take that back. But anyway the aviators of today are not the real men I am going to tell you about if you don't interrupt. From now on the story is told by the captain of our squadron, and when the writer uses I it means this old trapper, now our leader. So here goes. Indians, Pouf! I reckon I might could spin a yarn about them all right. He took his pipe fan old Indian peace pipej out, fixed himself comfortably and began to smoke. Ugh, I like to smoke when I talkg kind o' brings back mem'ries. Then, pointing with the long stem of his pipe, he began his strange and weird tale.