Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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to continue with the sportg and Jaime was quickly lifted to a stretcher and carried to the hospital, behind the arena. Coming out of the room in which they had put the boy, the doctor collided with a girl. A tearful girl it was, a girl no longer looking gay, without her scarlet shawl, a rose droop- ping behind her ear. Doctor-the-Jaime 2 Young fool,,' commented the man, un- pleasantly. No use of my wasting time here on him. Some good horses over there I have to sew up for the next bull. Thereis a man with him. Jaime, suddenly becoming conscious of voices, thought he recognized one of them. He tried to see, but the haze, that misty white haze, was still there. He turned feebly, at- tempted to speak, but the pain was agonizing, and he subsided. But the movement had been noticed. Jaime! from Solita. How peculiar her voice sounded! It was easy . . . I could have done it . . . your shawl . . . too long. . . The first words hard to understand, the last almost entirely undecipherable. Jaime stirred. Ceuta is still a very Spanish town. And its people still like bullfights. But the nags of the picadors are padded now, so that the bulls cannot gore them so badly. Solita has grown fatter. She, too, has retained her love for the Toros. She no longer has any ardent admirers, so she must take her greatest pleas- ure in telling the young ones how ua man once fought a bull for herf' But they do not know who it was. Solita never says that Jaime was killed. VV V page forty-one

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7 ?g.-S-Q , f 9? 'A-253' , ,R 0 U A - ?fu.' ,, . fide.-f. -z'i'f fini l XX lei 5 gifftflsi' ' ' i , ' A , .. A 'Y ,, u . 'P Inf ' ' J a I , 7 1 1 ji ' I f x X149 .rings- .V - , . ,A -7 -.-Xe A?X ii.SNiiYn '5 ff! yr 5 NH, 9 ..,'fT':-Q ,f-5'-' 'A' Salvator stepped aside, twisted the cloak, brought the creature back again. An exquisite chest-high pass! Raptly, Solita gazed at the matador. Ah, she murmured, uthat is indeed a man!,' 'gPah!', spat Jaime. 4'That is ordinary. And what is a bullfighter? One who must exhibit what anyone else can do, because he is unable to accomplish the other things in which the rest of us succeed! Annoyed, Solita glanced at him. Then, softly, bitingly, '6You are jealous, Jaime? Attention was turned once more to the bulllight. The famous man was executing a series of brilliant manoeuvers, which drew the breathless admiration of the crowd: Ah, bravo! Oyez! Look at that! Again Solita murmured something, but just what, Jaime could only guess. He was sullen nowg his every remark disparaged the work of Salvator. Finally, 'cWhy must you admire that so? I could do as well-better- with ease! Exasperated, Solita mocked him. The fickle Solita! A dare, Jaime, a dare! Go there, do as well. Do as well, my friend! The boy looked at her. She laughed scorn- fully. Trepiclation--and pride--mingled in his unsure, weak smile, H. . . l . . . He threw down his hat, snatched the red shawl from her shoulders. Holding it on the outstretched cane, he ran down to the barrier, vaulted it, ran toward the bull, tripped on the trailing shawl-fell to his knees. Jaime saw the bull coming. He must haveg for at the last moment, he waved the red cloth over to one side, frantically. Jaime was proud--but he was not a bullfighter. He felt the shock, felt the searing, terrible pain as the horn pierced through to his stom- ach. All went numb, then, and a white haze slowly gathered before his eyes. Peculiar, that, he thought. He had always heard that one found things turning black, when one couldn't see. But here it was, white. Yes, so white-burning white, awful white, glaring white-growing hotter, larger as a ball of flame-and in the terrible percussion of his realization of a new sun, Jaime lost con- sciousness. They finally attracted the bull, tired of goring this still, quiet victim, to another side, Page forty

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THE BROOK fA translation from Karolina Rudolphij O, brook of silver hue and clear, You hasten by, forever here, Whilst I on bank do deeply ponder, From where you come, to where you wander? I come from dark and rocky bowers, My course goes over moss and flowers, And o'er my surface hovers gently, The deep blue sky's reflection friendly. Wherefore am I of joyful spirit? It drives me on, I just flow with its, Who called me from yon dark inside- He, I think, will be my Guide. Eugene M. Lang. I THE ROMANTIC PLEA By Maximilian Price The pen was made for the delight of man, Ere discontent the world o'erran, And only to soothe and refresh the mind, For such a purpose-and only that kind. To degrade the base it was not created, Nor worldly evils has it motivatedg But garnished human thoughts with art, Of meditation has gmade beauty part. Give me not the cynic's gloomy view of life, A world of nought but passion and of strife, For where the fire burns bright with blazing light There Roinance and I shall spend the night, With Chaucer and Spenser, and the greatest Bard, With aristocratic Milton, the Muses' guard, Whose grave is marked with Memory's mound, Reading his verses of magnificent sound. Burning Shelley, shedding an angry tear, To mourn Adonais' brief career, All--all still live before my eyes- The charm of Romance has made me wise. Give me no childish rhymes that deride, What is to some fool his only pride, No, give me a song, splendid yet fine, P1189 forty-two