Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

Page 18 text:

Hot Buns By Catherine Wyatt C OME, on a brisk October afternoon after six hours of school, and ii l then hot buns. I know of nothing that I like better than to sit down to their enjoyment. The smell of them travels a long way. It meets me at the ,, corner. Then I know for certain and sure that the pan has just been removed from the oven. How the thought hastens my foot- steps! I-Iow it shortens the stretch to the kitchen door! Just let me into the kitchen. That is as far as I care to go, for cinnamon buns should be eaten in the warm spring atmosphere which their cooking has created. Give me a seat on the kitchen stool with my toes hooked behind the side rungs. Lay the spatula handy to chip in some extra bits of goo and a-ah! I take one. Goody-good! Just two, I say to the uneasy thought of my tendency toward weight. After that I stop counting. The only way you will ever find out exactly how many I ate is to take a sworn statement from each member of the family as to how many he or she ateg add in the remainder, if there is any, subtract the sum from the total. Sometimes when I visit my grandfather his roving eyes center on me. I know exactly what's coming. Your Aunt Belinda Betty Jane weighed three hundred pounds. Catherine is going to take after her. And then the ghost of the last batch of cinnamon buns rises up to haunt me. Shades of my ancestors! I should worry about my Aunt Belinda. Perhaps her glands went wild. Perhaps she never saw a cinnamon bun. So bring on the next batch. Hot, spicy cinnamon buns, all gooey with brown sugar! Have I made your mouth water? No? Then my powers of description are a failure. Oh! You said yes? Oh! Then come around next baking day. e ,gf Mb f E ig! fe -424 . w 1 - QV, all ifffllsl ' W P t if. a -- us' . . Page f011rfG011 THE MISSILE

Page 17 text:

Winter Wins By Kenneth Tipton When leaves have dressed in brown and green and gold And summer's fragrant breath has breathed its last Then winter's breath is a chilly, killing blast. The last of summer's flowers stand brave and bold Soon they will bow to winds so strong and cold As others did in many seasons pastg When birds to southern homes are flying fast Then aged Winter reigns like kings of old. Like human lives the seasons make their change, From bright and blissful days to bleak and bare, When youth defies old age to take its place. If We just had our lives to rearrange, Like flowers in the winter's wind we'd dare Old age to take our place in life's long race. Fulility of Fame By Evelyn Reade I hope before I die to have achieved An act by which my memory will survive, Remaining in the minds of those alive As compensation, when of life relieved, And reason for my being. 'Tis believed That all, when dying, ultimately strive Before those angels garbed in black arrive To stir a memory in those bereaved. But what is there in leaving lasting fame Since fame is futile in the face of death? And usually the world forgets your name Almost as soon as He has stilled your breathg And, too, what glory lies in living on When those who knew and loved you, too, are gone? THE MISSILE Pagetlurteen

Page 19 text:

The Emerald By Edward Spiers I. INDIA - 1885 6,539 VER Jaipur, far in the interior of mysterious l India, a relentless sun l beat upon an indigent ' population of natives, the greater number of whom lay about in the shaded places taking their noonday nap as had been the custom of their race for innumerable genera- tions. The aborigines seemed in no way prejudiced in the means of escape from the broil- ing sun. They were perfectly content to curl up in the filthy corners of the low, dingy abodes l or beneath any other protection that served to lessen the nearly unbearable heat which sapped every spark of vitality from their sweltering bodies. Although the tortuous streets were usually infested with tourists, itinerant musicians, and soldiers of fortune, today they surrendered their appearance in lieu of their respective dwellings to evade the penetrating rays of the sun. Thus making himself conspicuous by only his presence, a man wended his way through the numerous vegetable wagons and trinket stalls that obstructed his progress, causing him to make a somewhat circuitous route before reaching his destination. The pace that he assumed would also have been noticeable, for his steps were too long and too rapid for anyone having been in the locality of Jaipur for any length of time. He was a White man, dressed as any other civilized traveler would have been, having on the customary White suit, white shoes and a large, white tropical helmet. Any native who might have had the energy to glance twice at this THE MISSILE Pageiifteen