Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

Page 26 text:

The “Jylissjh “My mother’s name was Jeanne Meissonier,”’ answered Joan bewildered. “Who are you?” “I am Jean Louis Meissonier II, your mother’s half-brother. I left home at the age of twelve and my father never knew what became of me. I heard he was dead, but I couldn’t get to France in time for the funeral.” Joan explained to him why she was here in the rooming house. “You poor child,” her uncle said, “you are going to France with me next week, and in a few years you will be as great as your grandfather.” o On Being a Poet By Iris Harlow I wondered often yesterday If poet I would be; Perhaps I’d be a Tennyson, First place would do for me. I wonder as I sit today And read my rhymeless ode, How I could ever think that I Was on the poet’s road. Yet poet soon again I’ll be; Next week I’ll be so bright I’ll think myself a Burns. That is, Until I start to write. Page eighteen

Page 25 text:

— P. H. S. Joan, thinking he was probably an agent or collector, dis- missed him from her mind when she heard a soft, gentle knock on her door. She went to the door and opened it. The man stared at her a few moments and then said like one in a daze, “Jeanne, Jeanne, it can’t be you!” Joan, not knowing the man, didn’t know what to do or say. She just stared back at him. When she recovered from her shock, she said a little timidly, “I beg your pardon, I am Miss Hillby. Is there anything I can do for you?” The tall man shook his head and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands in an effort to clear his mind. “I beg your pardon. You reminded me so much of my half-sister.” “Won’t you come in?” Joan asked. “Thank you,” Meissonier replied. “You see, I was one of the judges for the Art Contest, and I considered your picture for the first prize, but the other judges considered another one. I didn’t come to tell you that; I came to tell you that I consider you a genius. Every year the Art School of Paris in which I work allows a student who I think has the best talent for paint- ing to study for three years under any artist in Paris with all the expenses paid. I considered your painting the best in the United States.” Joan was dumb with surprise. She hardly knew what to say. She didn’t care about the contest; she was to study in Paris. “Would they allow me to study under Cogniet?” she asked timidly. “Yes, you have selected the best artist in Paris. My father studied under Cogniet I.” “Why, my grandfather studied under Cogniet, too. He was a very famous artist,” Joan answered with surprise. “Who was your grandfather?” asked Meissonier. “My grandfather was Meissonier, the most distinguished artist of his time. He died about five years ago.” “Do you mean Jean Louis Meissonier?” the man asked breathlessly. “Why yes, did you know him?” Joan asked. “Know him!” he said, “he was my father. How? Why? I’ve got it! Are you not the daughter of Jeanne Meissonier?” Page seventeen

Page 27 text:

Puppy Love By Ivey Lewis N BEING told that I had to write a humorous essay, I racked my brain in order to find a suitable subject. It being spring, I inevitably thought of love. This sub- ject seemed to fit every qualification I desired inas- much as it was of interest to everybody and known to all people, young or old, rich or poor. And love, as everyone knows, is certainly humorous, if you are not the one in love. Having chosen my subject, I decided to endeavor to answer that age-old question, “What is this thing called love?” Real- izing that I am probably the first to write on this subject, I will be careful what I say. All love is divided into three types: puppy love, which is known mostly to high school boys and girls; spectacular love, which is known to college and young business men and women; and, last but not least, true love, which is known to older men and women. This last is the real love. Puppy love is the most pitiful and pathetic of all these loves. To see a young school boy moaning and groaning over some little school lass who knows she ought to be in Hollywood in the movies is certainly pathetic, but it is also humorous. A boy meets a girl somewhere, thinks about her and finally goes to see her. Immediately he falls desperately in love. He swears he will love her forever and that he will swim five oceans for her. And does she love it? She may not believe it, but she surely doesn’t disbelieve it. A girl sees a boy she thinks is “cute,” and she will do any- thing in her power to “get him.” She tells him a few white lies; a week later they will not speak to each other. To give an idea of what these lovers say to each other, I will repeat a conversation I overheard the other day. “Hello, Mary, did you have a good time at the dance?” “Oh, it was fine. I met two of the cutest boys I have ever seen.” “You did, huh?” “I forgot; you weren’t there, were you?” “No, I had a date in Richmond.” Page nineteen