Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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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

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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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“ The JVlissile Joan Hilhy By La Verne Lunsford S THE SNOW piled higher on the window sill and the wind howled a mournful song through the dim twi- light, the girl sitting before the easel in the shadows of the shabby room on the third floor of the rooming house shivered slightly. She pulled the thin smock closer around her. All day she had sat thus, painting, painting, painting. She rested her pretty head in her hands. A few minutes later she raised her head and looked out of the window at the fallen snow. Her well formed lips quivered slight- ly, and tears filled her soft violet eyes and ran down her paint- smudged face. Many weeks Joan Hillby had lived here in the crowded tenement house, just such days as today, working all day, scarce- ly stopping to eat at all. Some might consider this unwise from the looks of this slim, almost frail, blonde-haired creature in a faded purple smock which had once matched her eyes. On the canvas the spirited, twirling peasant girls in their native cos- tumes of Lorraine danced an old French folk dance known to their ancestors hundreds of years ago; and to Joan’s too, for her dead mother had been the youngest daughter of Jean Louis Meissonier, the famous French artist. Joan’s father, Marcus Hillby, while touring the country, had fallen in love with the beautiful daughter of the famous painter, and he had brought his young wife to America to live. When Joan was thirteen, her grandfather had died, and they had all returned to France for the funeral. It was then that she had seen the peasant girls dance under the sunny skies of France. All these things came drifting back to her now as she stood before the window looking at the fast falling snow with eyes that were dim with tears. She remembered how grieved her mother had been when they returned home. Before the end of the year, she had attended another funeral, the funeral of her mother, whom she had worshipped with a rare devotion. Now five years had passed since a beautiful, blonde-haired child and a sad-faced man had stood beside the grave of her mother. During those five years Joan and her father had grown to love each other a great deal more than before her mother’s death. Their evenings had been spent together with Page fourteen