Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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Just James By Mary Euth Carroll WAS a moonlit night in the year 1781. On the pier at Yorktown the waves of the river were lapping against the rough planks of the wharf. Silhouetted against the full moon an English man o’ war floated on the deep. On shore the spaced steps and clicking heels of the sentinel beat a rhythmic tattoo. Floating ’gator-like a “something” silently glided under the pier. At first it seemed it must be driftwood, so silent and indiffer- ent was it. However, after an almost interminable silence the figure slowly began to take an indefinite shape as it rose stealthily from the shal- low water. Only a slight trickling of water betrayed its presence as it stole stealthily toward the ladder to the plank. Until now no light had shone on the mysterious figure, but as his head appeared above the plank the moon threw its rays on his face — but only for a minute, for the face disap- peared with a start. The reason was guessed, for at that moment the click- ing of the heels of the sentinel were heard. As soon as the sentinel turn- ed, the figure crouched and then sprang toward the wharf buildings. Silent- ly he ran. He left only wet tracks made obscure in the shadows to denote that the place had been visited. As the sentinel turned, there was a slight movement by a large discarded box — nothing more. Once again the shiv- ering figure heard the thump, thump of the soldier’s boots. Once again the figure dashed into the darkness as the guard turned. A few miles thence the next morning the sun peeped through a crack in a barn to warm the ruddy cheek of a young boy. As the warm rays spread over his face, he turned slightly to place his hands above his eyes. Then suddenly he sat upright and be- came quite tense. Footsteps ap- proached his refuge, and as they approached he dared not look up. Within a few moments a small pair of feet, neatly shod, stood before him. Slowly he raised his eyes to see who might be the THE MISSILE Page eleven

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at the Yorktown picnic grounds on the riverfront since we had all brought picnic lunches. Boy! Did they taste good! It seemed ages since we had eaten early that morning. When someone said he had eaten too much, one of the boys answered that he had a feeling he should have stopped eating ten sandwiches ago! Resting a short time at the Victory Monument, we had our pictures taken — for what trip is complete without a few candid shots? The real highlight of the day was the visit to York Hall, formerly called the Nel- son House. It was Cornwallis’ Head- quarters. We thoroughly enjoyed visit- ing this home and grounds with the sunk- en gardens. This place was especially in- teresting because of a cannon ball lodged in the wall, a secret staircase, and the lovely antiques. Happy, but tired, we once again piled into our cars and very unwillingly started our homeward journey. Silent Witnesses By Jean Ide Oh, town ! what tales your houses and roads could tell ! Each road at first would speak of folks so gay. Each house at first would sing o’ the friendly day. Later those roads felt hoofs with news to tell. Homes heard, too. The bomb had burst its shell! The roads were torn with wheels and blood and fray. House watched house be burned, fall down, decay. All was sunk in strife of war’s mad hell. Cornwallis was stopped at last by the fleet of France And by the American force that camped all ’round. The road and houses saw him break his lance Against the surging force that held him bound. . In short, the tale of house and road would be : “We saw, first hand, the things that made you free !” Page ten THE MISSILE

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possessor. A frank, friendly smile met his eyes. Hesitant only for a mo- ment he returned the unspoken greeting. The small boy who stood before him spokek clearly in a soft, friendly manner, “I’m Thomas Moore. My friends call me Tom.” • The larger lad sighed as he said, “And I — I am James.” “James what?” inquired the younger. “That doesn’t matter, really.” “Have you come to live with me?” “No — that — is — I don’t think so.” “I wish you would. I like you.” There was a brief silence, because, perhaps, neither knew anything to say. However, the younger broke the silence. “If you haven’t had any breakfast, Minnie Lou makes won’erful pan- cakes.” The little master-mind! How did he know? Minnie did cook wonderful cakes as James learned. Although he was eating hungrily, his eyes watched with wonder the large buxom negress as she performed her marvels before an open fireplace. Minnie Lou was curi- ous, too, but young “Master Tom” was her favorite, and so he asked no questions. Besides, she liked this young lad who was her guest. As the boys started to leave, Tom winked at James, and then he proceeded to tug at Minnie Lou’s apron strings with his chubby hands. “What yo’ doin’ there, you naughty chile?” exclaimed the — well, rather pleased person. Tom whispered something into her willing ear at which she smiled broadly, and she disappeared in a moment in the gen- eral direction of the cupboard. When she returned, she gave each of the boys a cup cake. “Don’t tell,” Tom threw over his shoulder as they ran from the build- ing. Though the boys spent most of the day as far from the main house as the grounds permitted, they learned from various sources that something “queer” was going on “up at the house.” When dusk approached, the two boys were sitting on a green knoll. The sun was sinking fast in the west as it threw its golden glow on their faces as they talked. “So, you see, Tom, you’d perhaps best not tell of my visit.” “Yes,” replied the other understandingly. “Would you mind sleeping in the barn again tonight? Perhaps we’d better go on now, too, or they’ll be sending for me.” . . . James awoke suddenly as a small hand shook him desperately. “Wake up! Wake up! You’ve got to take a message to the general. It’s your chance. Hurry !” Page twelve THE MISSILE