Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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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

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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

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The “JVb ' ssile “Oh, Jack, I thought you told me I was the only girl you ever had dates with.” “Well, it was a sort of duty date ...” And so it goes. Instead of trying to answer the question “What is this thing called love,” in my own words, I think I will agree with the radio announcer, “It is a phonograph record.” That is as good a definition as any. o Friendship By Linwood Lunsford I walk amid my flowers in a row; Their heads are lifted to the azure sky, Their fragrant perfume thrills me as I go; I must remain. I cannot pass them by. My friends are only flowers in disguise; I sit and gaze at them in dreary dreams. The showy flowers that with dawn arise Will fade when tested with the scorching beams. And now I see a flower ’neath the shade: It does not please the eye as others do. It lives and thrives by day. It does not fade. Oh what a friend like that would do for you! Page twenty