Hunter College High School - Argus Yearbook (New York, NY)

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THE ARGUS huddled heap at the. other end of the bench. It stirs, and he sees a face of such weird beauty -that he cries out involun- tarilly. Slhlef smiles and moves towvard him. Soon, they begin to talk. Of him, they talk, of his work, his desrires, his ambi- tions. Slowly, the moon is waning. It goes b-ehind a cloud as, simultaneously, they rise. He turns, and without one back- ward glance moves away. She stares at him as he walks and a mocking smile curves her red lips. Another fool, slhie thinks. The moonlight has gradually faded from tihie statue, and left it-a bare, ugly, fact. The woman looks at it, and' stibl smiling, thinks of what she has done. Slowly, she fades from sight into the now dim moonlight, but the memory of that taunting smile seems still to remaiin. And he, walking hicime with his head in the clouds, his feet scarcely touching the ground. Whlat a proud mad feeling is throbbing through him! What elation is his! The moonlight is dancing before him in dazzling patters, is clutching his heart with tiny fingieirs. And yet it seems to laugh at him. Now, the moon is hidden behind a gauzy cloud. With the light gone the night no longer fascinates lhlimg he goes home. He sfeats himself at his desk and, almost without any eifort on his part, words present themselves to him and form themselves into throbbing, living sentences. All night he writes feverishly and when dawn steals in, she finds him slieleping, pen in hand, still clutching the precious manuscript, a masterpiece in which youth, and love, and moonlight are all glorified in living, burn- ing sentences. He mails thiei poem and lives only for the hour when he shall hear the glad news that it has been accepted. At last, a letter comes. With trembling hands, he tears it open. Yes, they have accepted it, they want more.. But to- day, 'hae will not write. There is always plenty of time to-mor- row. To-morrow croniweis, and to-morrow but he cannot rise t0 the heigihrtsi again. His poems are accepted merely :ofn the merit of the first,-his only great one. After a while these Poems too are uefturned to him. He does not understand. He had thouigiht to be of the immortals, and now ........ He thinks back on that magic night when the fire of genius ran in lhuis veins. lt all seems fantastic, ia dream. How is he to know that the were-woman has led him on, and for a moment imbuied him 30

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TH E A R G U S Uhr mare-Maman Often in the llolng winter evenings, I havien gathered with -my friends around the fire-place in the living-room and told marvelous stories, Sometimes, we spoke of gallant princes and courtly ladies, somleltimesl of raggle-taggle gypsies, and sometimes widh: bated breath, we would whisper the tale of the were-wlolf, how in the guise of a wolf, was a beautiful 1'ady, who made men love hlerr, and when they did, she would suck their blood. Oh, how deliciously we would shiver revelling in the horror of the tale! We would glance fearfully at the danc- ing: shadows, at the flickering flamifls, half believing that t'he were-wolf would suddenly step from nowhere into our midslt. Now, as I tell the story, old childish fears haunt me--but there, I am too old for such nonse.nse. It is Hallowe'en, a time when restless spirits roam the earth, a time of magic, of evil. .AL young man sits in his room. Outside, the wind moans and sobs. He shivers. It is hard to concentrate wlhlen one is cold and hungry. A baffled expres- sion is on his face as he strugglfens to capture elusive inspira- tion. Oh! How can he be inspired? Ideas slip througlh, his mind, elude, 'mock him. Through the window stream twin bars of moon-light. Ghostly arms, they beckon him, lure him, out- side into the black night where. unihioly magic is at work. The young man oblefys the .silent call, 'and hatless rushes lotuft into the street. Pedhaps, he thinks, in thlew beautiful night, his dis- 'ordered thoughts will! right themselves. In a coma, he walks the darkened streets, not knowing or caring which way his steps lead him,-up one street, down another, across. At last he stands in a deselrted little park. It is flooded by moronlight. The moonlight falls over the cracked pavement in fantastic designs, it clothes the bare trees: in radfianceg it sheds over an ugly, battered, marbllel statue its golden glow, transforming it into a 'thing of warm, living glory. There is a bench, half splaslhued by tmoeounlight, before the statue. He sinks into it and drinks in the beauty of the scene. How long he remains there thus enraptured, he does not know. Suddenly he feels as strange iniiuence. Somlething imnpels him to turn. He sees a 29

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THE ARGUS . with the sparkle of genius, and then mocked, llaughed at him? Now all through life he will remember that for a brief lhlour he was famous-but 'twas only for a brief hour. His eager lips have quaifed one draught of the brimming cup of inspiration, and then the cup has been dashed to the ground by a cruel hand, while he blindly gropes for it in the dark. And the werel- woman laughs. Can this be true? you ask. Ah, strange things happen in the moonlight. Draw clloser around the fire and let us have another story, ene' the light goes out and we are left in dark- ness. - Hilda Abel, Ag7. illrinarh Oft I remarked how many number those, Who starting in the race lhlave failed to gain Their longed for goalg whuo spite the.ir work and pain, And ever toiling upward, at the close Learn all too late he does not reap who sows - For in its mercy Fate will still restrain Each man, leisft fhe all glory should attain.- !! Are they then fools to try since thus it goes? So did I cry and swift my answer came: To win or lose is but the smallest part To those the players in lthis mighty game. Content are they with only their own art, Content are they witfhout the crown of fame., If but they rise in their own mind and heart. Leah Jonas, A7 31