Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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P. H. S reading and music, Joan working with her paints. The eve- nings together gradually became fewer. Mr. Hillby said he was detained at the office. At first Joan missed these evenings, but she became ab- sorbed in her painting and thought less about it. Then the in- evitable, as Joan had termed it, had happened. Her father was to be married. This was indeed a blow to Joan. It had never occurred to her that he would ever marry again. Of course, no one could ever take the place of her mother. “But then, if it must happen I will try to make the best of it,” she said to herself. Naturally she resented another woman taking the place in the home that her mother had once taken, but if it meant added happiness to her Dad’s life she could certainly stand it. “But leave it to Dad; if he gets mar- ried again, he will certainly pick a good woman,” Joan had said to herself with some feeling of consolation. Now as she turned and looked at the painting, the vision of her good mother’s face drifted between her and the canvas. Joan heard her encouraging words as if she were really present and speaking: “Some day, my child, you will be famous like your grandfather,” and then the taunting words of her father: “Your paintings will never amount to anything. You had better be spending your time at something more valuable.” Joan’s face grew bitter, and her mouth closed in a tight line as she remembered her last night at home. She hadn’t waited for her father to come home; she had left only a note saying she thought it best to leave and asking him not to try to find her. Then she had left. She was determined to show him whether she was a failure or not. She could take care of her- self because she had some money left to her by her mother. Joan had come to a very poor part of the town and rented a room quite different from the beautiful home which she had left forever. “Forever?” The word startled her a bit. Yes, forever. She had made up her mind never to return home again unless she became famous. “Yes, I will become famous,” she said over and over again. “Doesn’t the Meissonier blood flow in my veins? Didn’t I come from a long line of painters? Didn’t my grandfather tell me when I was a mere child that I would be renowned some day?” Picking up her brushes, she added a few finishing touches to her picture. Page fifteen . . . .

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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

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‘The JVlissih “I shall win the contest,” she said determinedly. “Then I can go to Paris and study under Cogniet II. Grandfather studied under Cogniet I, and became a member of the Beaux Arts. You win or you lose but I sincerly hope you win,” she said aloud to the picture. “I’ll wrap you up and mail you to the Art Exhibit in the morning.” The next morning she was up very early and wrapped and tied the canvas securely. She took it down to the post office on the corner and mailed it. It would be a week before she would hear from it. The suspense was sorely trying on her nerves. The days dragged slowly by. When time for the judging came, a heated argument took place between three men surrounded by hundreds of paintings. The man standing before the other two was a tall heavy- set fellow with a little mustache and spoke with a slight French accent. “I tell you that ees by far the best picture,” he thundered as he pointed to Joan’s picture. “I don’t know the artist, but I am certainly going to find out who she ees. Whoever she may be, she knows France. She has been there, and she has seen the peasants dance. Thees picture ees true to life; it ees won- derful! I don’t believe my father could have done much better himself. I tell you the girl ees a genius and only eighteen. If she can do work like thees now, what will she do by the time she ees twenty-five? And you think that ship ees better work than thees? I’ll agree it ees an excellent piece of work; but in my estimation it ees nothing compared to thees. It ees a beau- tiful ship ; it has good colors and ees well drawn ; outside of that it ees nothing, just a ship and that ees all. Thees picture ees true to life, full of action, wonderfully drawn, colorful; it has everything to make it a successful painting.” “Yes, yes, Meissonier,” replied one of the other men, “we realize the good qualities of that picture, but Mr. Meade and I prefer the ship, so the ship wins.” “I have nothing more to say except that I think the Peasant Dance ees the best ,” answered Meissonier. Back in the tenement house Joan noticed a man trudging along in the snow as she sat at the window dreaming of her picture. The man seemed to be looking for some particular house. Page sixteen