Virgil Junior High School - Forum Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)
- Class of 1931
Page 1 of 76
Pages 6 - 7
Pages 10 - 11
Pages 14 - 15
Pages 8 - 9
Pages 12 - 13
Pages 16 - 17
Text from Pages 1 - 76 of the 1931 volume:
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Zlnnu Barnum 1931
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'Dedication .... 'Page
'Principals message ff
Senior Class Girls f'
Senior Class 'Bogs f'
Uirgil f'PoemQ . 4'
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If Uirgil were Diving 'Goclagl . "
After Uwentg Centuries . . "
A 'Beekeepefs 'Bog . "
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'HIS number of the Uirgiliacl is lovinglg dedi-
cated to Baura Grover Smith, our librarian,
who loves bogs and girls and books. fl-ler interest in
the great poet Uirgil, for whom our school was
named, has inspired mang of our bogs and girls to a
like interest. 'Por that reason the theme of this
number centers about the life and time of Uirgil.
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ogaltg to -- n eptlu of understanding,
and breadth f is - qualifg Uirgil, the phi-
losopher poet, n outstanding contributor to
world literature V n of whom we should
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By ARTHUR BRUBGGEMAN, June, 1931
A mighty Roman known afar,
Who bore no arms nor left a scar,
A gentle soul to war unknown,
2No glories reaped by sword-blades sown
His honored name has seen the fall
Of Caesars, kings, their armies all.
The warrior heroes once acclaimed
Lie now in dust among unnamed.
Two thousand years ago he died,
But still his ancient fame is cried
Above the shouts of men that warredr-
Behold the power of pen o'er sword!
V Q' '11
By Davin STURGEON, June, 1931
Wlhen Virgil sang in rhythmic tones
To little groups in long past ages,
He little dreamed that this old world
XVou1d honor him among the sages.
I-Ie'd heard of Ilium or Troy
And other famed towns, so they say,
But never dreamed in wildest thought
Of cities such as our L. A.
He never dreamed of schools like ours,
VVith Hfteen hundred folk or more,
Or that his name would be engraved
Where all would see it on the door.
Oh, Virgil, may we grace thy name
And teachers, too, whose work is done!
Farewell! God bless you! Many thanks
From A9 Class of '3l.
By CHARLINE CLAYTON, B9 English
The following is the report of an interview with Virgil for a short
notice of his doings to be published in the Athen's Advocate:
Reporter: "You are .Publius Virgilius Marc?"
Virgil: "I am."
Reporter: "Er-when and where were you born, Mr. Marc?"
Virgil: "October 15, 70 CB. CJ, on a farm near Mantua. We
had the nicest big, white hens, and one day Minerva, the biggest. . . "
Reporter: "just a minute, Mr. Maro, will you please stick to
answering my questions?"
, Virgil: "Certainly, sir, certainly, but Minerva was such a nice
P Reporter: "To continue, Mr. Maro, what is your occupation?"
Virgil: "I really don't know. Some people call me a poet."
Reporter: 'Wlfhich of your famous epics do you consider the
best, Mr. Maw?"
Virgil: "VVhy, I don't know, Mr. Reporter. I like Tityrus
better than any other, but I doubt if I could tell you which one is
considered the best."
Reporter: "VVhich is your latest, Mr. lNIaroP"
Virgil: "The Aeneid isn't finished yet. I came here to Athens
in order to finish it."
Reporter: 'WVould you feel free to tell me the subject of it?"
Virgil: "I won't now, but when it's printed, I'1l send you one
of the first copiesf,
Reporter: "That will be fine, Nr. IX-Iaro. I'm very much
obliged for this information, and I assure you, it will be published
at the earliest possible moment. Good morning."
By ELIZABETH MCCOY, January, 1931
"VVhen I grow great and tall, like my father," said the small slip
of a boy to the bees, 'QI shall write a book and tell the whole world
what true friends thou art."
Did the bees suddenly stop their droning, or was it only imag-
ination that made it seem they stopped to listen to their early morning
'fBetter friends thou are to me than my own father,'l he con-
tinued bitterly. " 'Childl' Child indeed! Can I not lift the great
brass hearth kettle under the weight of which even Pallo stumbles?
I will go hunting, and he shall see if I do not bring home enough
meat for many meals."
The boy, Virgil, was slender and considerably below average
height. His age at this time might have been guessed as anywhere
between eight and thirteen, according to the play of emotions on
his face. Short cropped, curly, golden hair framed a face with
wide, blue eyes, a rather insignificant nose, and a mouth peculiarly
lacking in expression except when he smiled. He plainly was not
smiling now. The thrust of his chin was the only thing to warn
the casual observer of the great determination of this rather diminu-
tive specimen of boyhood.
Having made his manly address to the bees, he set off to-the
farmhouse at a ludicrously rapid stride. The bees resumed their
work, and peace prevailed once more.
About an hour later he passed the spot of his former declara-
tions, his head held high. By his side, not showing very plainly
against the white of his tunic, was a small, light-colored, leather
pouch. Perhaps the unlikelihood of its being seen was the only
thing which had prompted young Virgil to further show his manli-
ness by borrowing, quite without permission, his father's prize stone
It' was long past noon. Virgil sat on a stone in at glade of the
dark, pleasantly cool forest. Beside him on the ground lay the
borrowed stone pouch. Little streams of perspiration trickled
down his face, and his hair clung in tiny tendrils to his damp fore-
head. He glanced anxiously at the shadows beneath the tall trees.
He was late, but then it had been hot walk-ing on the long, white
highway which led through' the forest. Also there had been the
beggar and the "bear man,"'who were too rare to be ignored when
one did see them. p y .
He would sit here just a moment, and then there would still be
plenty of time for rabbit hunting. Rabbits were not hard to catch.
His father had said so. e E
What was it the beggar had said the powerful Roman galleys
looked like? Was it white birds or-or rabbits?
His head drooped wearily on his breast, and he slept.
The forest was dark when he awakened. He remembered now
that the beggar had said white birds. But what made the forest so
dark? He had been thinking about Roman galleys, and suddenly
the forest had become dark. Perhaps a storm was brewing. He
would hurry home, and undoubtedly on the way many an affrighted
rabbit would cross his path.
just as he reached the roadway the sun dropped behind the far-
away misty hills. Surely he hadn't slept! Well, even if he had
this was the ideal time for rabbit hunting. He would kill some
on his way home.
Still, no rabbits! The landscape began to look familiar. He
turneda bend in the highway, and there in front of him was home.
Late that night the bees again received a visitor, a very tired and
chastened looking visitor. Although there was no sign of life about
the hives, the boy, Virgil, spoke to the bees in the same earnest voice
as in the morning. Although it was a meek voice, it held in its soft
tones great determination.
"Yes, when I am great and tall, like my father, I shall write a
book about thee. Methinks 'tis better and wiser to write of bees
than to hunt for rabbits. Nevertheless, if I had my own stone pouch
I might change my mind." , .
And with that he turned and disappeared into the dusk.
By FRED R1-IEA, january, 1931
He had started out with high hopes of traveling across all
Greece. His voyage across the Adriatic Sea, however, had already
ruined his enthusiasm for the trip. His frail body could not endure
the heat, and he had now become very weak.
He gladly accepted the invitation to go to the house of Tullus.
He hardly knew when he was being carried from the ship to his
friend's house. It was near the shore, and he was soon resting on
a bed of tortoise shell and ivory.
Many thoughts passed through his feverish mind as he lay in
pain. I-Ie, Virgil, the poet, had not finished his great life work,
the Aeneid. Then his thoughts went to glorious Rome, in praise of
which his Aeneid was written. His poor literary effort seemed
quite unworthy of its subject. The task of ever describing the
greatness of Rome seemed now impossible. Suddenly he wished
to destroy it--to hide it-so that nobody could read it!
Next the shuttle of his feverish mind picked up another thread.
His father, mother, sisters, brothers had all died. He himself was
over fifty years old, and he, too, wished to greet death. He longed
to be back at the bay of Naples and to pick the hard red apples, as
he did when he was a boy. But alas! he was far away from home.
Then he bade the tired servants to sleep. just before midnight he
himself sank to rest in death and slept.
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By ALLEN HENDRY, January ll, 1931
I am a collector of old manuscripts. I always am looking for
them. Some men have picked up old letters and have gotten thou-
sands for them.
One day I suddenly remembered I had not gone to a certain
country on my trip over to Europe last year. I have always wanted
to go to this country, and so I set sail for it as soon as the first boat
going to it sailed. After about five days we landed in the country's
I was on one of the seven hills of the city. I was in a hurry to
go to my hotel, so I took a short cut through a vacant lot. My foot
struck a piece of metal sticking out of the ground. It was green and
rusty. I dug it up and saw that it was a schoolboy's capsa. It was
of bronze. There was a top on it. I took the top off. In the capsa
there were some rolls of papyrus. I looked them over. They were
all lessons except one. It looked like a diary. I could not find the
name of the person who wrote it. The diary of the schoolboy said:
Oct. 16, 64 B.C.-I decided to start my diary when I was almost six
years old. So the first seven or eight incidents
' were written after they were performed.
Oct. 15,70 B.C.-I was born early this morning. My mother is
Magia Polla Maro. She is the daughter of
Magius, the rich land owner. I think my father
is an employee of his. Father used to be a potterg
now he is a farmer. When he married Magia,
Magius gave father an acre of land.
Oct. 20,-70-B.C.-They named me today. I cannot say such big
words as they can, so I don't know what my name
is yet. I am happy. I wanted to be named, so I
didn't cry all day.
wb . Y
Sep. 19, 69 B.C.-
Dec. 30, 69 B.C
Jan. 10, 68 B.C
Jan. 27, 67 B.C
june 16, 66 B.C
Feb. 2, 64 B.C
June 29, oo B.C
Nov. 21, 66 B.C
Feb. 12,63 B.C.
I have two teeth now. I have a ring to chew on,
too. I am getting big. I weigh twenty-eight
pounds, four times as much as when I was born.
I am twenty-seven inches tall more than twice as
much as when I was born.
I canistand up now. I can stand up a long time
without falling down. I don't hurt myself 'falling
down any more. I can walk a little, but I fall
down after about three feet.
I can really walk now. I can walk thirty feet be-
fore I get tired. I drink goat's milk now. I eat
I went out-of-doors today, and I was stung by a
bee. It stung me on my nose. Father has a lot
of bees in square boxes. There are many boxes on
our farm. I like honey, but I don't like bees.
I was lost today in the forest. Father found me.
I am glad I have a good father. I was afraid in
the forest. I was found just as the sun went down.
I will not go off again without knowing Where
I went to school today. I am in the first grade.
I learned some more words today. I have a nice
capsa. It holds all of my books and tablets.
Father made it for me. It is bronze and has a nice
cover, too. I certainly have a nice father. .I am
shy, so the boys always tease me. I don't like it.
I hide from them. I saw a little rabbit today. It
ran into a trap. The trap hurt it, so I let it go.
.-I got an honor card. I got the highest honor in
the class. Father said he was proud of me. It
was easy to get an honor card. If you study hard,
you can get honor cards. 9
We studied more in detail about the founding of
our city. It is certainly interesting. I like our
-Father says-one of the illnesses I have is dyspep-
sia. I don't know what it means. I ate some
candy today. I ate so much of it that I had a
stomach ache. donlt like to have a stomach ache.
June 30, 63 B.C.-We graduated again. I got the highest honors. I
had a headache today. .I have them often.
Oct. 21, 63 B.C.-I went to a funeral today. I did not like it. I
think it is not the right Way to conduct a funeral.
Mar. 3, 62 B.C.-I have been watching the games at the Coliseum.
It seats eighty-seven thousand people.
Oct. 15, 62 B.C.-I had a birthday party today. AI am eight years
old. I don't like this kind of a diary, so I am not
going to Write any more of my life.
flj Capsa-a round box used to carry a boy's books to school. It
is like our brief case.
C21 One of the characteristics of Virgil was that he was shy.
Q31 Another of the characteristics of Virgil was his gentleness and
I wondered who it could be. He was born in the year of seventy
B.C. Virgil! That's who he is. I certainly would not sell the manu-
script for any amount of money. Wouldn't you like to have the
THE AENEID SAVED
By BILLIE Com:
VIRGIL ........ ................... ......... J a ck Rinker
V.-XRIUS ........ ........ B illie Cole
Tucca ......... .........,.., J ack Jaffe
SUISUO ........... ........ G eorge Scott
PLAUTUS ...,... ...,... . .g .... ....... T om Nichols
NIESSENGER ..........,........,....,....................... Bob Schwartz -
Scene l takes place in a garden in a villa near Brindisi on an after-
noon about l950 years ago. At rise of curtain a slave is discovered
adjusting Virgil's couch.
Slave: Are you comfortable? Are the pillows arranged to
Ifirgils This is Well. You may go and rest yourself now. fSlave
bows himself out right.J
- Virgil: This is Brindisi. Is it possible that only a few short
weeks ago I set sail from this very harbor, rejoicing in my determina-
tion to finish the greatest work of my career in Greece amid the cul-
ture of the ancients? But alas, I fear it will remain incomplete!
The cold hand of death is already upon me. No longer am I able
to think clearly. VVhy is my mind filled with minor thoughts?
Never before has my mind been so cluttered. Somehow I am filled
with sweet memories of my youth on my father's farm. I remember
the simple life, the hard work, the ways of life in the province, and
the flowers, the beautiful flowers. Their sweet aroma and beauty
come back to me yet. There was always happiness and strength
then. There was the will to do, the ambition to work, and the striv-
ing toward the top. Now I am aware of nothing but hot beating
sun, sultry nights, and arrested ambition. I shall never be able to
finish the Aeneid, I know. This group of words that is the slender
thread by which my memory will be upheld will never be ready for
the people. For I have nothing to live for but this, and it is not
enough. I yearn for the real happiness. No love is held in store
for me. No family obeys me, as their paternal ruler. No mother's
heart quickens when she hears of good fortunes and fame. No
father looks with quiet pride upon my deeds. No sister chatters to
her friends of my writings. No brother boasts among his fellows of
my works. All are gone that once loved me, and nonehave come
to take their places.
True, I have my friends, but when I pass 1 know that they will
not grieve deeply. Here, far away from the scenes of my childhood
and youth I waste away, neither caring nor trying to live. For all
is gone that once spurred me on to higher things. My life is almost
gone, for even now my heart is quivering and my eyes are dimming.
CI-Ioarsely now and desperately he speaks slowly and with great
eifortj. The Aeneid must never be presented to the people of Rome
as it is. It is not worthy of them. fHe rises up and calls.j Plautus,
Plautus, bring your writing materials. CEnter the slave right.j
Plautus: I am here, master.
Virgil: Sit down, and take this letter to Varius, my friend in
Rome. CSlave draws up stool, sits down and makes ready a wax tab-
let and stilus.J Varius, my friend, I feel that my life is closing.
Before I die I should like this last wish to be granted. All my un-
published works, including the Aeneid, I should like to be destroyed.
I trust you with this duty, my friend, for I know that you will carry
it out. I feel this will be my last communication with you, so I wish
the divine to bestow upon you all their blessings.
Sign my name and despatch a runner to Rome at once with it.
Slave: As you wish. CBows himself out.j s
Virgil sinks back, exhausted.
Scene Z is in the garden of Virgil's house at Posilipo another after-
noon about a week later. Varius and Tucca are sipping wine and
talking quietly. There is a dispute although the actors do not
raise their voices out of respect to the dead Virgil.
Varius: But, my dear Tucca, it is his last wish. Should we be
so unkind to his memory as to disobey this? fHe holds out a wax
tablet.J Remember, he trusted me to carry it out. Of course, as it
is not your duty, you can think of numerous excuses, but, as I said,
it is mine!
Tucca: In the name of Apollo! Shall we stand by and see this,
the greatest work of Roman literature, destroyed, or shall we do our
duty and present it to the people?
Varius: Oh, I suppose we should, but I am loath to give my con-
sent. fPause as both sip their wine.j QThey are talking together.j
lfarius: Bly courage faHs .... e
Tucca: I tell you, Varius ....
fEnter a slave, left!
Slave: The elder, Soisus.
Soisus.' My friends, have the gods been kind since last we met?
Varius: Yes, except .... fthey all look downcast.j
Soi.m.v.' But stay your tears and think. Virgil did not desire life.
He desired happiness. You may be sure that the gods are treating
him kindly now.
Tucca: Yes, but instead of mourning Virgil let us discuss this.
tHe hands the tablet to Soisus.! Will you read this?
Soisus.' fAfter readingj Our Father Jupiter! This is indeed
astounding. What shall we do?
Tucca: Do? Disregard it altogether and publish the Aeneid.
I7H1'I.ll.Y.' No, no, we can't! ,
Soisus.' It is indeed a problem worthy of the god's thought.
Tucca: VVell, I have given you my solution.
Varius: And a poor one it was.
Tucca: VVhat solution can you oiifer that is better?
Vai-ifus: I don't know! I don't know!
Soisus.' Verily, it is a diilicult problem, but let it not come be-
tween friends. Come, finish your wine and give me some.
it Varius: CHis head in hands, deep in thought! 3 Serve yourself,
Tucca: VVe can'tgo on like this much longer. I shall confess.
I have sent word of the message to the emperor.
fVarius drops his empty cup, and Soisus jumps up.J
Soisus.' I had judged you a man of some sense, Tucca.
7Htcca: I resent that.
Varius: Holdl Hold! It is done. A word may be apologized
for, but an action must be remedied in some other way. Think, my
friends, quickly. The Emperor's messenger may arrive at any min-
ute. Did you send the message, Tucca?
flinter the slave,leftj
Slave: The messenger of the Emperor!
Tucca: Jupiter be with us!
Soi.vu.v.' Here, appear to be conversing quietly! fThey arrange
themselves on benches and sip their wine.,
Zlflessenger: For you. KI-lands him the roll of parchment he is
Varius fr-eadingj: It is the Emperor's command that the works
and writings of the poet, Virgil, be preserved and delivered into the
Emperor's hands as quickly as possible.
Varius: It must be done. CTO the messengerjz Inform the
Emperor that his orders will be obeyed! First rest yourself.
CThe slave takes him off, left.j
Soisux: So will Virgil live forever!
Tucca: It is for the best! fSoisus and Tucca exit left.,
Varius: So will Virgil live forever!
r I ,
CA F ET ERIA
IF VIRGIL VVERE LIVING TODAY!
By AGNES JANE WVEIR, January, 1931
If Publius Virgil Maro were living today, his name might pos-
sibly be Thomas Smith. He would be a rival of Longfellow and
a schoolmate of President Hoover, instead of Caesar.
In one of his poems the last lines were:
"Hail! land of Saturn, mighty mother thou
Of Fruits and Heroes."
These lines written today would be:
"Haill land of a republic, mighty mistress thou
Of Skyscrapers and Mussolini."
Virgil's background would be today a great metropolitan city
instead of a simple country village. His farm in these days would
not have been lost during a war, but it probably would have been
sold for some interest in the stock market.
Virgil, we know, wrote the Aeneid, Eclogues, and Georgics,
which made him the best known writer of the age. He wrote of
the country life of Italy. In our time the Georgics would be pub-
lished as a small pamphlet by some agricultural institute. If the
Aeneid had been written recently, Aeneas would have made a world
tour in the Graf Zeppelin, or he might have been a rival of our
But Virgil's name is not Smith, nor is he a stockbroker, and he
is not a rival of Longfellow. Yet he does live today! He was two
thousand years old on October fifteenth, nineteen hundred and
thirty. Virgil still lives and will live forever in the hearts of the
If Virgil were only twenty years old instead of two thousand
years old, do you think he would be as great a man as he is today?
No matter when he was born, nor in what country he lived, nor in
what circumstances he was placed, Virgil would still be the greatest
poet of all time. He is indeed the greatest poet of all the ages!
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AFTER TWENTY CENTURIES
By JAMES SMITH, June, 1931
How the heart thrills at the mention of that magic name--Virgil!
His gifts to the world are some of the greatest works of literature
eyer known. Yet, in spite of the shining honor and fame which
were his, he remained quiet, seclusive, and, as far as possible, shun-
ning all publicity.
Publius Virgilius Maro was born in a little village near Mantua,
called Andes, in 70 B. C. His father, a humble farmer, sought to
give his son the highest education possible. Accordingly, Virgil
was sent in turn to Cremona, where he studied until he was sixteen
years of age then to Mediolanum, and then to Neopolis. At N eo-
polis he studied under Syro, a celebrated teacher. He returned to
his father's farm, only to be bereft of it after a few weeks, due to
the war of the triumvirates. However, through the assistance of
Augustus, it was restored to him. This extensive study to which
the poet was devoting the first part of his life was destined to make
of him, together with his natural poetic genius, a man who is hon-
ored and studied even up to the present day.
Some of his great works are the Eclogues, or Bucolics, a series
of pastorals, the Georgics, four books dealing with husbandry, and,
last and greatest, the Aeneid, one of the greatest poetical works of
literature ever created.
Through a pulmonary disease, however, Virgil was unable to
finish the Aeneid. At Athens he began to have 'hemorrhages of
the lungs, and when he embarked for Mantua, the motion of the
vessel seeped out his last remaining bit of vitality, and he died soon
after landing, on September ZZ, 19 B. C. A .
We say that Virgil died, but in reality did he? He died in
material form, yes, but his works have given him a place in history
that will never be corrupted. Virgil, the greatest Roman poet
that ever lived, will never die!
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A .BEEKEEPER'S BOY
By PAT FAIR, January, 1931
Two centuries ago, on an early summer morning, a boy was lying
on the end of a fallen tree that hung out over a stream. He was
peering down into its clear undimmed waters, where a huge orange-
spotted trout lay hidden. In the boy's eagerness to see more clearly
a lock of his thick black hair split the top of the quiet pool, which
sent the frightened trout quickly out of sight. With a start he
jumped to his feet, sprang into the brook, and waded across to the
The delicate slenderness of this tall boy with his black hair gave
him a faun-like appearance. The premature wisdom in his gray
eyes was difficult to understand, while his mouth showed a keen
sense of feeling, acutely alive to impressions. His nose was the
only feature characteristicof his Roman forefathers.
This youth was Virgil. Destiny was to make him the greatest
of Roman poets!
VValking along the stream's edge through the birch and poplar
trees or spying on the bright-eyed squirrels or resting happily on
some fallen log was his never-tiring satisfaction.
It was not his father's delight by far to see his son dreaming
when he should be helping him, a beekeeper and a busy farmer. So
the lad, suddenly remembering he should be home, pruning the
olive trees, left his fairy land and started on a run down a lane which
led over to the hills and home.
As he ran, the cold morning wind tipped his nose and chin with
pink, while two crows overhead cawed in derision at him. Soon
he came to the cornfield back of his house and then stopped at the
well to drink. His mother's voice carried his name across the
meadows. Answering, he ran to the arbor where she sat.
"Virgil, my son," said his mother, smiling, "word has come from
Rome that the school has accepted you. Andronicus, the potter,
,adam Y Y... ,
will take you in his cart tomorrow morning." She kissed him and
bade him pack his things for the journey.
That night, when he took off his tunic and sandals to lie down
gy the fire to rest, he dreamed of the wonders of the great city,
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