Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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The JVlissile The Man-Made Bird By Bolfe Gregory INCE THE beginning of time, man has longed to fly like the birds in the heavens. Today, man’s wish has been fulfilled. He is able to fly better than the birds! He can soar to heights greater than any birds can reach. He can fly faster than any bird in the air. There is no limit to this new, free world .... the air! I feel that the person who has never been in the sky has missed a great experience. To fly through the heavens like a bird, at a speed that is greater than the fastest express train on earth, is a thrill that is hard for one to describe. He must experience it himself. The air is to the aviator what the sea is to the sailor. The smell of the fresh salt air causes a pang of adventure to surge through the heart of every sea-faring man. In the same manner, the smell of gasoline and the sight of an airplane causes a like pang to surge through every man who flies one of these man-made birds. It’s a great thrill to ride in an airplane, but the greatest thrill of all is flying one yourself. When you realize that you are flying the ship by yourself, that you have complete control over this man-made bird, you want to shout, to sing, to burst forth into poetic utterances. I had my first airplane ride when I was sixteen. I went to the field at noon. The sun was shining brightly in a cloud- less sky. I admit I did feel a bit nervous when I saw my friend, who was going to take me up, coming toward me. For years I had dreamed of flying, and now I was about to realize my dream. I had studied flying from every book I could find, but what I wanted was actually to fly. I strapped myself in the plane and adjusted my goggles. Just before taking-off, the pilot said to me: “When we get to fifteen hundred feet, I’ll let you take the controls and fly the ship yourself.” I felt a bit nervous, but I almost knew it was just a joke. We climbed higher and higher. The beautiful checker-board landscape unfolded the deep green forests and fields before us. It was May, and spring was in the air. I wanted to sing. Then the motor suddenly died down! The pilot yelled to me to take the controls! I took them and tried to keep the ship on an . . . . Page twelve

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P. H. S. But the melody that he cannot sing Yields a deep, exalted peace That no impassioned fame can bring. Its quiet warmth will never cease; It is a beautiful, silent thing. IY. Evening The sky is a boundless pasture land, Sheathed in a mist of mellow light, When the west has hid the molten sun From the stealing darkness of the night. Across the stretch of deepening blue The clouds are moving, soft and slow Like weary sheep, their fleecy backs Half-veiled in the evening’s dusky glow. And the wind is a faithful, gentle shepherd Who drives them o’er the darkened way — And homeward through the shadowed silence That clings about the ended day. Page eleven

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. P. H. S. even keel. It wasn’t easy, but in a few minutes I got the feel of the air and kept the plane level. A wonderful feeling surged through me. I was flying the ship by myself! I had control of this bird with its great, outstretched, silver wings. My first airplane ride, and I was flying the plane all by myself! The ride ended all too soon, and I was again back on mother earth. It felt like a different world compared to what I had just experienced. Such is the wonderful thrill of flying. I greatly desire that every human could take an airplane ride during his life and see the beauties of nature from the air. I only wish that I were a great poet that I might express my emotions in beautiful words as I sail through God’s heavens in these man-made birds. o Thoughts Of Demosthenes By Nan Seward 0 cruel, ruthless, raging sea! My thoughts so often turn to thee. How beautiful is thy crest today! How can I speak my words and say My speech which is so dear to me, 0 sleek, green, glassy, grasping sea, When thou art here? How changeable are thy ways to me ; Thou playest thy same strange rhapsody, Melodious, yes, but toneless still — Like incessant whirrings of a mill. Thou shout’st thy warnings futilely Of the menace that thy waves can be, And I am safe ! Break in the still grey dawn, now dim. The sun is peeping above the rim, The sky grows pink, reflections ripple — Stillness now — thy volume triple. Thy waves rush in, rush out, repeat Their same old monotonic beat And leave me here! Page thirteen