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

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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

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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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AFTERWARDS If it should be my lot to die in youth, With no ambition conquered or fulfilled, With nothing worthy I could leave behind, A memory of one who strove in vain To clamber o'er the stones of weary life, My prayer is this: that when I so depart, This soul-rent body be not marred, becoming Beautiful in death, etherial, may it not be Draped in shrouds dark-hued or black, But silken lace and golden cashmere soft. These eyes not closed by mortal fingers crude, But open wide to look on all about With steady gaze, tranquillity disturbed By nothing, now that all this life is done. . . And unashamed to stare at one Who pity now may give, not mocking smiles. . Lila Pollock A2 STORM A flash Of jagged gold, A rumbling darkened sky- The lashing rain! The trees Shaken by the wind, Bending distorted bodies- Terror! A cat Caught in the rain, Gingerly stepping in puddles Disdainful! lane Hastings X6 Page Twenty ezght