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Page 30 text:
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Literary CAMIOLA By Ardith Smlth An auction was being held at the beauti- ful old mansion of the late Major David B. Roberts. Yes, the dashing Major was dead-killed in an aerial battle over a small island in the southwest Pacific-and his heir, a young nephew whom he had never seen, had come down to Petersburgh to sell the things off. Most of the town's people lamented the lack of a will almost as much as they lamented Daves death. It was the opinion of one and all that Dave had not intended the unknown nephew to inherit all of his wealth. Doctor Fehling believed he intended to leave a small portion of his wealth to found a hospital and place him in it as its resident physlciang Rev. Darnell pos- itively knew he meant to do something for the churchg Professor Weeder had heard him speak of a free library, and of course, all the distant relatives had expected leg- acies, so everyone was unharppy over the situation except the heir himself. 'Camiola Brown, private secretary to Dr. Daniel Fehling, leaned on her typewriter and watched the people as they went by on their way to the Robert's mansion. As she watched, her thoughts turned backward to a young couple leaning out an attic window looking with rapture at the scene spread before them-at the mountains in the distance- and all nature at her best. The things are old fashioned, lCamiolag the boy was saying, they've been in the family for generations, and I love themg but jwst say the word, and we'1l redecor- ate all the way through-any way you like. But I don't want to alter ity she in- terrupted, I love it too, just the way it is. Honest? he asked. Honest, she replied, and turned her head to receive his warm kiss. Plans, such wonderful plans they made that day leaning out the attic window. We were going to be so happy, Camiola moaned. Oh, darling, it has always been just you for me and me for you. It was such a silly quarrel, and we were so young and proud and ruthless. Her memories were interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Fehling. My word, Camiola, are you not going up to the auction? he boomed. Oh, I know. I've forgotten to tell you that you have the afternoon off. Well, what are we waiting for? Grab your bonnet and let's go! Really, Doctor, thanks, but I don't be- lieve I'd care to go. Oh, stuff and nonsense! Go? Of course you want to go. Did she want to go? Camiola asked herself, and her heart echoed, Of course you want to go. When ICamiola and the doctor reached the Roberts' garden, the auction was in full swing. She dutifully listened to the bidding for a while, but it was only be- cause the doctor expected it of her. The grandfather clock, the set of china that Dave's grandmother Roberts prized so much-it seemed so tragic to Camiola to see them go. lShe wandered on inside where people were running hither and yon looking at this and exclaiming at thatg on upstairs where people were poking at the beds and examing bedding: and then still upward to the garret. Nothing up there, said a well-meaning woman who was descending. Tain't worth while to lose breath climbing. Camiola didn't answer but continued her climb. Nothing up there? Up there where two lovers had dreamed sweet dreams and planned sweet plans? Why perhaps the ghost of their dead past still lingered up there, loath to leave-her ghost and Dave's. The girl, a woman now, went to the win- dow and leaned out-just as she and Dave had done fifteen years ago. Life seemed rather cruel to her at that moment, indeed she rather envied the mountain -those eternal mountains, unchanged while lives were being lived, while youth fled and love departed and graves were dug. She real- ized at that moment, perhaps for the first time, how really alone she was, just she, no Dave. Odd, she had unconsciously clung to the hope that Dave would come back some day. lContinued on page 501
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Page 31 text:
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IN THE ABSENCE OF HIS MAJESTY By Lois Hall Little spirits of rain danced the conga on my cottage roof to the jazz fluting from the wind, which cut capers through the trees. Through the rain-curtained windows I peeked at the foam-flecked lake, rolled by swirling gusts of wind. The pulsating beat of the waves on the shoreline teased me to join in. Excitement tingled electrically through my veins as I grabbed my trenchcoat and stumbled out to my motor-Canoe. The small, mule-like engine sputtered as I lmlpatiently coaxed it 'into action. Then, sounding like a bee caught in a microphone, it lurched the boat forward and skipped from wave to wave, shipping in buckets of water. I turned the boat broadside to the waves. 'They playfully tossed the canoe into the air. Then they caught it and nestled it in their arms a split-second before they threw it up again. Two sea. gulls glided about over my head. All was respectfully silent. The dark, veil- ing clouds parted, and the sun, robed in glory, shone through. FROM, MY DOORSTEP By Harrlette Watson When I wander out on the back porch of our house early-not too early--on a sum- mer morning, I can see at least a quarter of a mile in every direction. To the east I can gaze out on the few trees we have left in our apple orchard. I don't know which time of year I like these trees best, for in the spring the boughs are laden with fragrant, colorful fblossoms, and in the fall the red, ripe, delicious fruit hangs, just waiting to be picked and eaten. Then to the south-east, between two neighboring houses I can see for more than a mile out over the hills and scattered groves by the Calais Road. .An occasional cow wanders forlornly in the radius of my view, although why she should be forlorn on such a glorious morn- ing is more than I can understand. The fiery-red bushes belonging to our neigh- bors on the west add much to the beauty of the sceneryg and as I stand reviewing the splendor laid out before me by the hand of God, I feel glad to be alive and even more glad to be able to face such a. world from my own doorstep. MY MUSIC AND I by Dorence Larson When I was a child, I had the misfortune, as I thought, to take piano lessons. Not only did I detest the long, tedious hours of practice, but the very sight of the teacher terrified me. She was the village spinister, a tall, austere person, with firmly-waved gray hair, beady black eyes behind thick spectacles, and a long pinched nose. On wintry afternoons her nose would turn a ghastly white, while the rest of her face bloomed rosy-red. Perhaps this was why the school children called her, secretly, of course, Ol Nosey. She would sit beside me at the piano, clad in her traditional black dress, with a heavy silver chain about her neck, and count in a stiff voice, One and two and three, while I misinterpreted the scales. But when she began to play! Then I would hold on to my chair and gaze at her in wonder. How could such a person, so severe and stiff, play such gay and tinkling melodies? She became almost beautiful in her transformation, her face glowing with an inner beauty, her bony hands running up and down the keyboard, lifting me into another world. But when she had completed the selection, her face would lapse into the usual, cold mask, as she said Already? Begin! A DAY AT THE FAIR As Fllelated By a Seven Year Old by Ruth Wood Oh, if you could only see me! I'm in bed with all kinds of medicine settin' 'round me. What's the matter with me? I dunno! I can't figure it out. All I did was go to the fair. Yesterday, I went to the park where a fair was being held. Oh, I'll never for- get it! We left early in the morning--'bout sev'n, I guess. We arrived at the grounds along with everyone else. I was terrible hungry, so I bought some pop-corn. Gosh! Was it good! The first person I met was Georgie, a friend of mine. He had two hot dogs an' a bottle of pop, so I went and got one, too. We walked over toward some music. Why, it was the merry-go-'round. We, Georgie and me, bought our tickets and selected a nice,, wild lookin' horse to carry
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