Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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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.

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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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26 THEM 1ss1LE g It was off in them mountains and it happened before the oldest of you learned the taste of milk. The prairie was black with buffalo, the streams held fish without number. Nature was at its highest, and it was all magnificent in God's great out-of-doors, my fellow aviators! I was not by myself. There were two others: my friend, Ted Jones, and a real man, even though his skin was red. There are many whose hearts are white under their red skin. Our meeting was strange, very queer. He had scalped my friend Jones and would have scalped me had his foot not slipped, and splash! over into the river he fell. For a moment I stood watching him. Had there been a look of appeal in his eyes or had he called for aid I would have stood still. But no! Too proud to cry for assistance, and in his eyes, as they met mine, only the savage look of hatred of the red man for the white. He was making a manly struggle but Black Bear was slowly losing. He would have killed me, but when a man. a real manly man is as brave as that, what would you do? In a flash of a second I was beside him. Well, I was a strong swimmer, and soon I got him ashore, where the bank wasn't so steep and slick. When I had climbed out, he had already recovered his knife and stood there, a magnificent type of real, red-blooded man, waiting for me. He was without a doubt the finest example of real hon- est-to-goodness manhood I had ever laid eyes on. And did I admire him Pi' The old captain took a long draw on his peace pipe, paused, wiggled his mustache. Did he get y'? Tom inquired. Have I not said he was a real man? He came closer, knife in hand. I had nothing. He suddenly scooped up some grass, burst out in a war cry, and around me in sure 'nough Indian fashion, coming to an abrupt halt at my feet. Throwing the knife. bloodv from my friend Jones's neck, at my feet, he drew himself up so, flung his great arms apart and held his manly chin proudly in the air. 'Strikel' he said. 'Black bear would have scalped White Hunter as he slept: Pale Face drew Black Bear from rushing waters. Black Bear's life belongs to VVhite Hunter. Take it!' Picking up the knife and handing it to him, I said 'Black Bear, I do not want it.' 'Black Bear would have scalped White Hunter, did not White Hunter hear his words ?' A I nodded and answered, 'Black Bear is a man. His heart, the heart of a real man, is white though his hide is red. Let him keep his life and knife, I do not want them.' 'White Hunter's skin is white, but his heart is heap-much big and red. He too, is a man, and Black Bear is his brother till Manitou calls him to the Happy Hunting Grounds. Have I not spoken P' I could not induce him to leave me. He argued that the Mohawks were on the war-path and I was in grave danger both from them and his own people un- less he was with me. In vain did I tell him that I could take care of my- self. 'Black Bear will make himself as small as an ant and move as softly as a Wildcat, so that his brother of the kind heart may not see him nor will he hear him, but he will stay with his brotherf So he stayed. I saw nothing of him, nor did I hear him. I thought he had gone. But suddenly he appeared to save my life from a crouching lion. And one evening I called him, and he stood before me as though the very earth opened up and deposited him in my presence. I don't mind saying I was startled. I told him he could stay with me if he chose. After that we were inseparable. I was young and thought I knew everything, but I soon learned