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

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Though the village padre urged her, she said nothing. Though her father besought her with tortured eyes, she remained silent, immobile, weary. Then tonight, pronounced old Pietro, you die as a traitress. You shall hurl yourself from the cliff-nearest-the-stars. And they watched her that night, watched her walk slowly to the grove of trees near the edge of the cliff, heard her footsteps rustle the long grass, heard a dull, far-away splash as of a body falling into the lake below. And all night they heard the wind wail along the mountainside, heard a storm rage about the valley. In the morning the chestnut groves were devastated, stripped. A huge boulder had crashed down in the storm upon Antonio's house. His body they found lifeless in the ruins, and yet breath- ing, that of Giovanni, the Duke's old servant. To the padre, just before be died, he told how he had betrayed his master to the Austrians, for money. The young Austrian officer, Margherita's lover-the townsmen beard it so reported, had been killed by a huge rock in its ruthless passage, down the storm-scarred mountainside. And of all these lost ones, Margherita alone returns, walking through the long grass, gently taking her way to the edge of the cliff-nearest-the-stars, and always just before a terrifying moun- tain storm approaches. Victoria M. Scaglia, B7 SONNET TO YOUTH The smell of fresh brown earth in spring is youtbg The call a breeze wafts thru the atmosphere, The whispering of universal truth, The melodies of birds, a magic tearg The sadness that a moment lasts,-O life! A pebble breaks the brook's smooth calm with talk Or laughing shouts that prick as with a knife- Sweet thoughtlessness-'tis youth, a short brisk walk, And strength that- fills each tingling nerve, bright eyes, Red blood, the wish to live! The young tree's grace, A smile, the product of a million sighs, The joy, the thrill, the will to head the race. All this is youth, its moods, its Hag unfurledg Simplicity-its claim before the world. Sarah Lederman, A8 Page Twenty-six

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The dapper ofiicer grinned sneeringly and said. Sociable lot, aren't you! If you weren't so hard to get to, up here in the mountains, you might have learned manners long ago. Again the townsman regarded him stonily and raised his arm to the next house. Reddening, the oflicer strode to the doorway and demanded of Margherita, May I see your father, my pretty? A tall, elderly man pushed his way front, gently pushed the girl inside, and said I am her fatherf, I command you in the name of the Emperor to surrender the Duke of F orestaf' For barely a second the older man hesitated. The Duke of F oresta? You are surely mistaken. With my daughter and old Giovanni I live alone. Stop that. We know he is here. Will you give him up to me without a struggle, or must we kill you? Bring him outf' From within the house a second elderly man appeared. Though he wore the brown breeches of the peasant, with a gay shirt of linen and a sash of fringed silk, and a knitted cap with bright wool tassel, he seemed higher in station than the average villager. When Antonio, Margherita's father, tried to force him back, he shook his head and said to the oflicer: I am the Duke of F orestaf' Charmed sneered the oflicer. My Duke wears peasant garb now. Ah, the fortunes of war!-But we must not tarry-Bind him men. To the downcast Antonio the Duke said as the soldiers bound him and marched away. Grieve not, my friend. You are not to blame. I thank you for the help you gave. In silent consternation the crowd of villagers watched their beloved ruler disappear. Then one turned sharply to Margherita and pointing cried Traitress! Margherita drew back into the doorway. Her father pushed the door shut, and with blazing eyes faced the crowd. He held up his hand for silenceg thelpeople, used to obeying him, obeyed him now. In his excitment, Antonio slipped into the old mountain dialect: Ye would accuse her? What know ye of her? Know ye surely that she was betrayed-? Ye shall not take her. In the crowd there rose cries of Kill her, traitressf' 'Try her! Try her! Aye, she shall be tried! Gray and old, Antonio agreed. Go to your homes. She shall be tried-Tomorrow-by the Elders. They met, the council of the Elders, to try Margherita. To try her in the presence of Pietro, who had seen ninety harvests, and Luigi, along with his son who had lost an arm fighting the Austrians, and old Andrea, whose wife and child had been killed by Austrian bombs. Pale and drawn of face, Margherita sat with her father, while the council droned on and on, on to a foregone conclusion. When the delibera- tions had wearied all, old Pietro stood up and said in his brittle, cackling voice: Have you anything to say, little one? Page Twenty-five

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ARTHUR GUITERMAN R. Guiterman's complete ease and charm dissembled any qualms we might have felt. With the help of surprisingly few questions, we learned quantities of interesting things, only the most important of which will appear here. Mr. Guiterman was born in 1871, in eight years he had already begun writing poetry. Altho his family ties were close, he received little encouragement concerning his poetry, due to reticence rather than indifference. His early poems were serious, the first important ones being The Call to Colorsl' and The Rush ofl the Oregon, both inspired by the Spanish American War. He was one of the first of the pioneer poets who dared to drop the unnatural forms set by the contemporary standards. In 1896, his protest against blasting the Palisades was copied from a local paper by the New York Times. Subsequent contributions of his founded the famous South East corner. An editorial in another paper encouraged contributions and in 1899 he had the thrill of his life when the Criterion accepted and paid for one of his poems. A few of the publications to which Mr. Quiterman has successfully contributed are Life , '6Century Magazine , Scribner's,', Harper's , The Youth's Companion , American Magazine , Saturday Evening Post , and The Outlook . He was an in- timate friend of the famous Joyce Kilmer and is well acquainted with all the best-known and most interesting writers of the times. During luncheon he disclosed many private opinions and fascinating stories. In case you are interested, he dislikes tea, typograhpical elisions, free verse of all sorts, and tardiness. He is fond' of talking, ballads, talking, originality, talking, and correct English. And oh yes, did I mention talking? He is Phi Beta Kappa, a good athlete, and an interesting companion. He does his writing in a medium sized room which is filled with typewriters, copy and blank paper. Its mural decoration is a neatly framed story, told by two letters and a card. The letters are polite rejections of a poem from two well- known magazine. The third is a copy of the poem as it has been decorated and gamished-it is now one of the most famous of its type! When we were leaving, Mr. Guiterman apologized for having talked too much. This is, at worst, a doubtful fault indeed, and we cannot help but wish it were one with which more famous people were afflicted. Mignon Audrey Bushel, A8 Page Twenty-seven