Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

Page 32 text:

much about it. Everybody puts “X’s” at the bottom of love letters meaning “kisses.” Now, after proving I know nothing worthwhile about the subject itself, let me show I also know nothing about its origin. Yes, nothing, or, that is, nothing definite. I’ll admit I have a theory. I’ll tell it to you, and if it were true it certainly would prove its early appearance into history, for you see, this story goes all the way back to Eden. One morning in very early summer way back there, a beau- tiful pearl pink dawn awakened the world. The air was very soft and the rising sun wsrmed the earth and made the cool dew glisten. Theirs were great and beautiful loves .... Eve’s love for Adam, and Adam’s love for Eve. This morning, with Eden so blissful and the soft air so restful, they were silent, gazing at each other with love in their eyes. And they were very happy. Eve plucked a fragrant flower and idly tickled Adam’s lips with its petals. A drop of dew and nectar was left on Adam’s lips, and it sparkled in the sun. Eve leaned over and sucked its sweetness .... so quite by accident they made this delightful discovery, in a perfect setting one summer morning in Eden. Thoughts on the Winds By Kay Lefebvre The Night Wind On a broken seat in a garden old, We sat in the hush of a summer night Beneath the myrtle trees; The moon above us skipped and rolled, Then danced behind the clouds in fright, In the wake of a gentle breeze. .... Page twenty-eight

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9 . !K. § . In the Beginning By Milton Hull 8 n= ===— | HIS, my frier ds, is written on very good paper and the ! origin of that age-oid c ustom, “kissing.” Ah, you perk up your ears .... yes? Eut no, the kiss cannot be called a custom. A cus- tom rides the crest of popularity for a while like a fad, then dies out. But not the kiss. It is eternally in good favor. Perhaps the reason for its popularity throughout the ages is that maybe it is one of those instincts engraved on our in- fant brains when we make our grand entree into our present habitat. Undoubtedly there are different kinds of kisses, ranging from candy to those scenes seen in “movies” and there only, as far as I know. Of course you’re acquainted with the sort politicians be- stow hastily upon some soft infant cheek saying, “Ah, little man, I can count on your mother’s vote, can’t I?” To which maybe you’ve heard the perambulator-pusher reply, “I’m not his mother, and besides he ain’t a he ... . he’s a she!” Then there was once a time when gentlemen kissed milady’s hand, the idea being to prove he was a gentleman by kissing unhesitatingly the profered hand, showing his implicit faith that the lady had washed her hands. And once men kissed their lord’s foot as a sign of their respect and servility. Somehow or another the motive became twisted so that now one says “kiss my foot!” only when driven to extremes and is profoundly disgusted. May I ask if it forcibly occurs to you that I might have picked a subject I knew something about? It occurs to me, very forcibly, and although maybe it doesn’t worry you, it worries me because I have to keep on writing and you don’t. Yes, I’m afraid it’s too apparent I’m not an authority on my subject. I cannot even explain its fascination to the human race, only offering lamely that it probably is an instinct. Truly, to me my theme is as unknown as “X.” I’m not the first to call it “X,” so maybe nobody knows Page twenty-seven ....

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A fretful wind about us played — A rush and a lull, a hush, then a rush ; Beneath the myrtle trees; A wind that puffed and then delayed, And frisked around the lilac bush, In the wake of a gentle breeze. A sweet perfume was wafted ’round, A gust from fragrant orchard blooms, Beneath the myrtle trees; The scent of grass and damper ground, An aroma of wanton roses’ fumes, In the wake of a gentle breeze. An airy draft from the stable-yard, A sluggish stench to the garden brings, Beneath the myrtle trees; A sportive eddy with slight regard, A lily sways and other things, In the wake of a gentle breeze. The Flower I found a ragged wildflower, Faded and crushed and old, Pressed between the leaves Of this book, long forgotten, Dusty and edged with mold. I thought of a past romance, The love that this flower begot; A boy and a girl who quarreled .... A minute’s mad hate was storming And ardor, turned cold, was forgot. This flower-like love had faded, And the scent was too stickily sweet; As I lifted it out of the pages The wind, like a memory, stirred it, And it crumpled and lay at my feet. mmimimmiiimmimmiiimmimitmimimmiimmimmimmiimmimmiimmimmiiimimmimmi mini mi Page twenty-nine ....