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Page 66 text:
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MIDNIGHT IN A PARIS CAFE I GI-ANCED at my watch- nearly midnight. I’d told Amy I wouldn’t be away long. I drained my glass and signalled a waiter to ask for my check. Just then I saw the strangest couple coming across the floor. The woman was tall, strikingly beautiful. She wore her dark auburn hair low- on her neck. Her brown eyes were absolutely expressionless. She seemed totally unaware of the people around her, of the music, the smoke. It was as if she were in a trance. The short, stocky man following her couldn’t have been more different. His small black eyes darted back and forth across that low-ceilinged room, until I had the uncomfortable feeling that there had been no detail, however slight, overlooked. They sat down at the table next to mine. The waiter stood at my elbow. But here I sensed adventure; so I said, “The same, and thought of what I’d tell Amy. The girl sat motionless, seeing nothing. The man continued to glance around the room. Another wrong hunch. I devoted my thoughts to the rest of the customers. I had been sitting thus for several minutes when someone tapped me on die shoulder. I started violently. It was the short, stocky man. He said politely. Pardon me, monsieur, but would you be so kind as to settle a question for me? What would you say die lady is thinking about?” He indicated the beautiful Titian-haired girl. I replied, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you, sir, for the lady appears to be thinking of nothing at all. She seems to be almost in a trance.” He stared at me a moment and then said, Thank you so very much. You’ll never know what you have done for me this evening.” Then he walked over to his table and sat down heavily. Slowly, as if every movement hurt, he drew from his inside coat pocket an important looking document and methodically tore it to bits. The misty look seemed to clear from the girl’s eyes. She looked at me and smiled gratefully. Or was it my imagination? Diana Beebe AQUAMARINES I found two lovely aquamarines Like frozen drops of ocean dew Like pearls that formed in a mermaid's cave Or tears that fell from a sky of blue. I hid them on a rocky ledge Where none might steal them ’way from me. But a snowy sea-gull found them there And dropped them in the deep blue sea. Elinore Appel [62]
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Page 67 text:
“
NIGHT ThB room THROBBIJ) with the distant pnting of a train as it paused for breath at the station. Two o’clock and still not asleep. He turned over to listen to the escaping steam that seemed so near and drowsily wondered why sounds seem louder at night. Over the incessant murmur of the crickets mounted die wailing obbligato of a hound, a death chant for summer. The moon filtering through the veil of curtain made livid squares on the floor. For hours he had watched them widen and lengthen until they covered the bookshelf in the comer bluing the volumes. The pallid squares were broken only by the swaying branches of an elm by his window. Crack! He sat upright. His drowsiness had disappeared and his heart pounded like the train that had just continued on its journey. The dog and the crickets canted their threnody. That was all. With a muffled curse he threw himself back, burying his face in the pillow, the creaking a sharp protest. Only die house; all old houses groan and crack at night; he derided his fear. But his sudden start had prohibited sleep. He got up and went to the window. A few stars strove to outshine the moon, and failing in that, exasperated him by disappearing when he looked at them, only to twinkle mockingly when he searched for another. The cold moon stared blankly down at him; its pitiless aspect cooling his irritation at the malevolent stars. His lips moved in the words of a poem, forgotten since his youth: “The baleful moon glares down without pity And haughtily, idly stares at die city.” An officious wind brushed a crisp leaf from the elm. It glided down lazily, silvered by the moon until it was lost in the shadowy velvet grass. The rumble of die train would suddenly crescendo, then it gradually diminished, until it settled down to a contented murmur which blended with the dirge of the crickets. Jean Alice Poller ON A CITY BUS My first IMPRF.SSION was of a middle-aged woman of a hardy build making her way down the aisle of a New York bus with a small boy. Her face was red and pock-marked, with prom- inent cheek-bones and a firm mouth. They were scarcely sealed beside me when the boy, of about diree years, began a stream of questions in a high-pitched voice aided by much pointing. “Just another tired mother giving her child a little air this sultry night, thought I, little inclined to be tolerant. Still I was moved to pity when I saw how lovingly her work-worn hands caressed him as he sat on her lap. Pity quickly gave way to admiration when I heard a quiet voice attempt to satisfy his curiosity with amazing success. I looked at her again, but this time her eyes met mine. They shone kindly in a fearless glance which enlivened her face widi strength and understanding. After that we talked a bit, and I learned something about her before I left. She had always lived in New York and knew every section of it and loved them all. She told me about all die beautiful mansions we passed as well as the over-populated section where she lived. Her little son, she said proudly, was the fifth generation to live in their family home. She talked long of him, for he was her only child—indeed almost all she had in the world. She regretted that she could not give him many opportunities, but was trying to make it up by devoting much time and love to him. She had chosen this moonlit night to show him New York by night, and she, sitting in the open top of a bus, was enraptured by one of her best beloved sights. Maxine Appel [63]
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