Petersburg High School - Missile Yearbook (Petersburg, VA)

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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

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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

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tourist would have been completely justified in thinking that he was going to the Temple of N aida, as he was walking toward it, and the temple was the only attraction to sightseers in that direction. The Temple of Naida was constructed directly at the termination of the cobbled street. At least it would seem so, but the street was the re- sult of the templeg for centuries the natives had gone to this obscure temple from miles around to worship the huge idol that it sheltered. Gradually they had settled along the sides of this path until a small com- munity had been established. They named this community Jaipur. The man's quick and deliberate steps gave evidence of the fact that he was well aware of what he wanted to do. After the lapse of a very few minutes he stood on the steps of the great temple, whose whole structure shimmered in the terrific heat. The man stood there for a moment mopping his brow, from which exuded moisture which flowed freely. The huge temple blended harmoniously with the similar buildings which en- closed either side of the narrow street. He stopped short in his mental appraisal of his surroundings as if he were in a hurry, then found him- self, after taking several steps, within the great hall of the Temple of Naida, the temple which housed the protecting god of the Jaipur ascetics. In the center of the great hall the immense idol immediately arrested his attention. It was the only inanimate object in the hall. A ponderous bronze masterpiece of Indian craftsmanship, approximately twenty feet high and seemingly nearly as wide, entirely dominated the room by the grotesque features of its physiognomy. The idol sat upright on its haunches, its legs crossed Turkish fashion. The misshapen arms were folded across its massive chest in grim defiance of all who entered. About two inches below a mass of serpentine curls there was set the object of all that the tourist population of Jaipur came to see. Emitting an incredible, greenish radiancy, imbedded in the bronze forehead was an oriental emer- ald. Its beauty and size alone were enough to attract the attention of even a novice in the knowledge of rare gems. The man stood motionless within a few feet of the entrance, awed. It was not the beauty or size that held his gaze thus, but an estimate of the mercenary advantages a stone that size could afford fiashed through his mind. Before the seated idol paced a native guard, on whose shoulder there rested an unusually modern rifle for such an obscure locality. The highly polished metal barrel reflected the rays of the sun that shone through the many holes in the ceiling, on whose shafts of light the dust particles slowly floated up and down. With apparent effort the man drew his eyes away from the hypnotic Pasesirteen THE MISSILE