Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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PETERSBURG HIGH SCHOOL M The Voice of the Violin By Leona Baird i-IE great train rushed on through the night from Leipsic to Berlin-its fiery lights gleaming like the eyes of some huge, medieval monster. In one of the second-class compartments sat Frederick Zeis- bourg and his little four-year-old son, Eric. Professor Zeisbourg was an instructor of Harmony at the Leipsic Conservatory of Music, but, at the death of his young wife, whom he had Wor- shipped, he had seemed to lose all interest in his work, and at length he was ordered to Berlin to rest. At his feet lay a green felt case covering his most cherished possession--an old .Cremona violin. It was of wonderful and intricate workmanship, and the tone of it under his skillful fingers was almost like a human voice--now laughing, now nearly sobbingg sometimes with a note in it as of the combined sorrow of all the world. It had been handed down to him by his father, and he, in turn, was beginning to teach little Eric to cherish it. Eric turned to his father and said, in a high, sweet little voice: Daddy, why are you sad? I was thinking of the Angel Mother, little man. You never knew her, answered Frederic in a sad voice. And was she pretty-this Angel Mother ? lisped the little boy. Ach, mein childer, like the roses that grow in the garden at home, replied the man softly. The little boy moved restlessly, and finally turning to his Daddy, he asked, Daddy, how far is it now? Frederic looked at Eric and smiled-a slow, sweet smile of infinite tenderness. ' And are you tired, my son? he whispered. Yes, Daddy, whispered Eric in reply, and so sleepy, too. It will not be far now, little man. The child sighed and pillowed his curly head in the curve of the big man's arm. It was a touching picture-this little, little boy with his flaxen curls and round blue eyes, resting so trust- ingly against the shoulder of the big, sad-eyed man. Suddenly, the gentle picture was distorted as a terrific jar rent the train, and the shrill scream simultaneously tore the night air into a thousand pieces. Man and boy were cast head- long into the aisle. Amidst the anguished din which followed, -2a-- A

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-'iff THE 1vx1ss1LE in its mellowed age, the bridge serves as a sunning place for the sprightly little lizards that skip about over its moss-grown stones. The tower of San Augustine lifts its shrub-grown, careworn head proudly as we look back for a last lingering farewell. It had seen a happy people bowed down in sorrow over night. It had seen and heard the flames eat and crackle in diabolic glee the homes and municipal buildings of a beauty-loving people. It had seen the rose--colored smoke turn to grayish dullness in the early dawn of a day that saw ruin where once prosperity had reigned. San Augustine lifts its storm-beaten head proudly, for it knows that they were not a people without courage, for they founded a new Panama, miles away from the old. The new Panama is a city of a once more happy, prosperous people. They are not without their troubles, however, for they are like other people, a tear today and a smile tomorrow. Thoughts By Katherine Rucker Alone At this hour of night, When all have gone to bed, I read, they think, but instead, I plan my fight Alone. Mistakes Of the day don't fade As they come to my mind at this hour. I was innocent as a flower, When thoughtless I made Mistakes. Oh, God, Direct this one To live tomorrow right, Without errors in the iight Of life not yet won, Oh, God! -.22-.

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-if THE MISSILE Frederic heard his son's terrified cry and then he sank into unconsciousness. When consciousness returned, he found himself in a bare, white-walled room, the walls of which seemed to advance and retreat before his stunned gaze. He uttered a weary sigh, and closed his eyes again. He felt a cool hand on his head and a soft, feminine Voice soothing him. There, there, you'll soon be all right again, this voice said. He opened his aching eyes and whispered, Eric? Now, don't try to talk, replied the voice. But you're not Eric! Where am I? In St. J oseph's Hospital. You were in a train wreck, on the outskirts of Berlin, said the nurse kindly. Where is Eric? whispered Frederic. Eris? Who is that? Eric, my son-my little boy? Was he hurt? Frederic's eyes searched the sweet face above him. I don't know, answered the nurse. He isn't here. We found only you pinned und'er one of the cars. And my Cremona-where is it? again the Weak voice pled. Pm sorry. We saw nothing of it. Now, you must be quiet- you've lost a lot of blood and it isn't good for you to worry. Please try to sleep, and that cool, welcome hand was again laid on his fevered brain. No! No! Frederic spoke wildly. Let me up! I must find them. He strove to raise himself, but the effort was too great, and he sank back in a dead faint. The nurse hurried from the room in search of a doctor, with tears of pity Welling in her kind eyes. Meanwhile, Eric was at the home of one of the passengers on that ill-fated train. She was an opera singer, and had smiled at the little boy across the back of the seat ahead. When the train had crashed, she had picked Eric up, and, having looked in vain for his father, had taken him to her apartment. He was miraculously unhurt, and he clutched in his tiny arms the violin-also unscathed. After feeding the little boy, she took him in her arms and sang to him to cease his crying. But where is my Daddy? wailed the boy. He'll be here soon, answered the woman softly. She was Greta Shultz-better known to the operatic world as The Night- ingale of Berlin. ,