Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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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

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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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“Wh — what are you talking about?” “I mean that they — up at the house — need another messenger to go to General Washington. Will you go? You may ride my pony and — will you take this for me and keep it always ? I won’t see you again for a long time — if you go home after you deliver the message.” And the young boy clasped something small into his friend’s hand. “Now — hurry !” A messenger was needed so urgently that no one noticed the person who took it. It was assumed by all that he was trustworthy. No one doubted it. It was a long ride to Washington’s headquarters that night, but per- severance and a feeling of elation in “his” confidence in him speeded him on. The general himself greeted James and smiled kindly on him as he took the sealed document. “Thank you, young man. You are English, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir,” was the reluctant reply. “Then I am doubly indebted to you.” The sentinel wasn’t on the pier that night. Strange! Yet James didn’t tarry to question the stillness of the night. ’Twas a boy alone on ship that night — but not lonely. He sat in a cor- ner of the cabin ; his eyes glowed and sparkled. In his hand he held a tiny ring. Now that he glanced up one could see that he was very happy. He had a friend — and such a friend! And he had carried a message to Gen- eral Washington. What a lucky boy was he ! By Shirley Wilensky The stars peeked through the willow tree. Set in a sky black with the night; The soft, wind moaned, caressing me. The lights of the city were out of sight. The stream was rushing over the rocks. Birds were singing in the dark ; An elusive fragrance scented my locks. My head in joyful reverence bent. The chirping of crickets gave me content. So I bended my knee to my God to pray ; My head in joyful reverence bent I thought. Thank You for this lovely day. THE MISSILE Page thirteen