Virgil Junior High School - Forum Yearbook (Los Angeles, CA)

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ali' 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. l27l

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gf ,bi-A Z THE HUNT 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 visitant? '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 pouch. l26l

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1' ' SLEEP 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. E281