Warwick High School - Warwick Yearbook (Newport News, VA)

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5 9 l D E B R I S. dgeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeqx 4' ' Th F ' k W' t X hite's N euralgia 3 3 ran ln ef gi 5 Remedy Cures..... Q ardware Ompany ,' Sold by All Druggists. Q it q 25 and 5o cents. 5 sq gg 3 .K -o ,nz lea... up ,Q V ' J M! -- W C T W V M W 9 : : ii an 'l V 7f' 2 S A l 5 W EN 2,5 LOUIS DURAIN, sv A . sv ni N Q E THE il, . V as l Q CARRIESALINE 01: W A ' 5 2 i 133 N. GOLUMBUS sr. IZ Not Equalled in the Cit . Q ii LANCASTER- OHIO- sv y A gl 'lbnaaaaaaaaaaiaaaaaaiaaaagaaaiaaaaaaaaaif .l A along the road toward Orleans, the raising of dust, the trampling of feet? Why do the women run to their doors with such looks of joy? An army you sayg but how mustered, and why such a look of determination in the faces of the tired foot-sore soldiers? But see! all faces are lifted to- wards a girl in glittering armor, seated on a white charger, with the lily banner of France floating out behind her. And who is this that calls forth such looks of conhdence, such adoration? Joan of Arc! This inspiring leader of men, can this be the same small peasant maid you beheld trudging along the road to Chinon some months ago? Then you have not heard why she is the talk of France, this maid, who, after the greatest per- serverance, was given an audience with the kingg who surprised all with the answers she gave to the white wigged men who prepared her by hard cross-questioning for her station at the head of armies, It was rather through her influence on the common people and on the army than any true belief in her competence that led the king to give her soldiers. Most severe indeed were the hardships she was forced to undergo. But behold her at the seige of Oleans, encour- aging her men, rushing, regardless of danger, into the thick of the fight and finally riding at the head of her army into the city. But un- tiringly she pushes on, rallying her men to the capture of that long line of strongholds leading to Rheims. It is there she brings her king and has him crowned. Then when she might have de- manded honors for herself, her only wish is to return to the peace- ful quiet of her old home at Domremy. But now she is no longer visited by the visions. She is the object of many jealousies, and giving her half-fed, worn-out armies her king and country press her into further use. At last she is cap- tured by the Burgundians and sold to the English. She knows now that nothing can save her. Oh the dragging on of the weary weeks. Will the trial never come? It has come but Joan was convicted before she ever appear- ed. The questions put to her had no exonerating answers and are a shame to civilized countries, while her replies were an illumination. To think that a Bishop of the Church should be one to convict her, this innocent, brave girl! More languishing in cruel pris- ons, more scofhng to be endured, while outside the nature she loved is coming to life. Soon it will be the glad Easter tide. And then her execution! The horror of it! As you read it seems like a nightmare out of which you pray to waken. All roads lead to Rouen, or at least all heads are turned that way. The roads are a mass of living forms all hurrying in the same way, all talk- ing of the same thing. For hours the market place has been packed with people and with armies, and in the midst of it all rises a great structure, a huge platform, with mouth wide open waiting to lap up with a tongue of fiame an innocent young life, as brave a girl as ever lived. A girl made a woman by a few months of re- sponsibility and suffering. The crowd stirs, there is a low rumble as of a growling tiger about to de- vour its prey. Here she comes bravely facing death, she who has lived death over many times in the last few weeks. Who would know her for the pink-cheeked hap- py shepherdess of Domremy, this emaciated girl walking to her exe- cution through a throng of scofiing people, her debtors. Ah, you jeering men where would you and your country be were it not for this maid? The fagots are thrown on, the flames rush with a roar up through many air channels and wrap her in the cloak of a martyr. Bishop of Beauvois, you who have sold yourself for earthly honors, you who are unworthy to throw your- self in these blessed ashes: Oh France! you who have stained your ground with the blood of this glorious martyr-it is too late! She is dead! DOROTHY BELL WHILEY, '1O.

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8 D E B R I S . v-.3351 ii - '3 332 'fi 45351 -' g., , f s x i 5' 55 5: X ' eil ci iii . 1 liii ill- I JOAN OF ARC. i'i '4 i'f,iN DOUBTED LY we each 'ini' 405' 9+ U ,509 have a favorite histor- ii+++i'i ical heroine, whom we 2222221 set upon a pedestal, then stand at a distance to admire, honor, or pay homage to according to our various tem- peraments. Perhaps yours is some woman of noble bringing up, some queen who, by right of birth and years of preparation, was destined to fill a mighty place and to figure in the annals of history. But not so with mine. A part of her greatness lies in the fact that by her efforts alone, she rose, at eighteen, to a unique position in the history of nations, rose from a simple hearted, untotored peas- ant maid to be the leader of arm- ies, to be the advisor and rescuer of her king and country. What act more grandly patriotic can any human being perform? What task more tremendous to under- take? Yet she did it cheerfully, willingly, as her part in the great plan of our universe, did it with the knowledge that it meant the sacrificing of all her own wishes, even to her life. I have forgotten in the outpour- ing of my praise of this pious, un- selfish girl, to mention her name. But is it necessary? Nog surely not: for only one such person has ever lived. As I said JOAN OF ARC is a unique figure in history. Her environment must have had much to do with her career. Her native village of Domremy being on the border and situated at the crossing of two principal high- ways, was constantly the scene of passing armies. In no place could she have better known the scars that a hundred years of warring with mighty England had left on France, and the wounds that yet lay open and bleeding in the very heart of this country. England was rapidly learning of these Vul- nerable spots and driving poor France into a writhing agony with her probing of them. Then the forests that surround- ed Joan's home,-unfathomable, mysterious forests on the borders of which Joan tended her sheep for long weary hours, surely made an ideal setting in which to brood over these disasters and place her in a receptive mood for those whispered thoughts, those visions which called the simple shepherd- ess forth to save her country. For after all Joan was successful only so long as those visions inspired her. She never felt that her suc- cess came through any greatness of her own. Many a one wiser than I has said that .Ioan was not inspired, that she never had these visions, in short that they were merely the workings of her imagination, nur- tured by her peculiar environment. But as this is not a thing that can be proven, it pleases me to believe that she was inspired, sent on earth as God's instrument to per- form this duty, and that the visions were the sign posts that He show- ed her to lead her on to victory. For a moment let us take the less imaginative view, the more practical one, and call it environ- ment. Surely there were others, contemporaries of Joan at Dom- remy who saw the passing armies, felt the struggle of war and im- pending disaster, breathed from the very earth, and who tended sheep in the forest. ln fact we know there were. Think of Haumette, Joan's friend, from whom we learn so much of .Ioan's pious girlhood. Why did Haumette not deliver France? Search all written records of the time and we find no word that leads us to believe that she ever thought of such a thing. Nor can we think that Joan was favored by heredity. On the con- trary we are told that her ancestry is of the ordinary peasant type. and all history points to the fact that her father was of particularly coarse fibre. We all believe in miracles. We do not have to stop to see them. This old world of ours which has been the scene of so many won- derful happenings is in itself a miracle. Therefore we have no right, no ground on which. to scoff at the fact that Joan was in- spired. For me that point is set- led. In any case Joan believed in these visions with all the ardor of- her young life. They gave her the inspiration that led her from home. Is there not something sweetly pathetic about her as she leaves Domremy. She, the brave little peasant, beloved by all, making her last confession to her priest, and receiving his kindly blessing, wandering into the forest for the last time, driving her sheep home in the evening and stopping to say goodbye to a group of friendly old dames gossiping on the road, pausing to gaze for the last time into the crystal fountain, whose sparkling depths she was to see so many times as she lay in shackles on the cold dungeon floor, await- ing her execution. She must have been sad indeed for these were the things she loved, and she felt she was leaving them never to return. See her the next morning before the sun is up, started off on one of those great roads that led into the unknown world. What must have been her feelings as she turned to say the last farewell to her dear Hau- mette and to catch the look of dis- satisfaction on her father's sour face. it ik SF if if But look! What is this coming

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