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Page 6 text:
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The Vcii«je;nicc of the Furies jpHE rambling, old farmhouse of Jonathon Bardwell was comfortably protected from the heat of the midsummer sun. A great weeping willow spread its sheltering branches over the roof, petunias and zinnias bloomed in the garden, and hopvines clambered up the poles of the piazza. It was Sunday, and young Johanna Bardwell sat rocking on the porch. Though it was her only day of leisure, she was unhappy. How could she be happy when her father was going to sell the wood-lot, her wood-lot? True the times were hard and money scarce, but — Johanna could restrain herself no longer. She ran along the road and at the gate met Andrew O ' Neil, the friendly constable. At his question as to where she was going in such headlong flight she answered hastily, I don ' t know, and I don ' t care! Before she knew what she was doing, she had told him all her troubles. There, there, he said comfortingly, I know just how you feel. Would you tolerate my company for a last, little walk in the woods? She consented, and they walked along together over the crackling leaves of madrone and tanbark oak and rested by the side of a lively brook. It was cool and restful, and no irritating sounds arrested their ears. Sud- denly, as if out of nowhere, a harsh laugh broke the serenity of the woods. Andrew put his finger over her lips and listened. We certainly fooled old Bardwell, didn ' t we? continued the voice. The price we offered isn ' t half the value of the property, but he ' s hard pressed. After all, spoke another voice, we aren ' t paying money for it, and we ' ll sell it for a high price to the lumber company. The voices grew fainter and fainter and at last were gone. Andrew rose and spoke excitedly to Johanna. We ' ve got to work fast, he said. That ' s the pair who are buying these woods, and they are dishonest or I ' m very wrong in judging. You bring your father and a few men to help me. I ' ll follow the rogues and leave a trail of papers. A crackle of leaves and he was gone. Johanna stood a moment be- wildered and then resolutely set out for home. Half an hour later he re- turned with ten men, armed with rifles. Johanna did not join the pursuit but awaited their arrival in the woods. After about an hour of waiting a group of very hot and disappointed men emerged from the tangle of thickets. The little divils! expostulted Andrew, they wouldn ' t have gotten away only they had one of these high-powered cars and made straight for it when they saw us. Yes, and they say there is justice, he muttered to himself. They were as pretty a pair of counterfeiters as I ' ve ever seen! Johanna consoled the men with the thought that her father had lost neither money nor woodland. The next day Johanna walked to the near-by town of Brekenfeld to get the mail. She unlocked her postoflice box and unfolded the daily paper only to be confronted by heavy black headlines reading, Daring Coun- terfeiters Killed in Accident! Just then a very excited Andrew rushed up to her and recounted the whole story, how the very counterfeiters
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Page 7 text:
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who had tried to rob her father had run into a tree while escaping and been instantly killed. Johanna was too astounded to speak. All the hurry and bustle of Brekenfeld ' s one street faded from her view. She heeded not the shrill cries of the children or the casual greeting of a passing friend. It was with difficulty that Johanna brought herself back to the vivid world of reality. At last she turned her gaze on the round-faced and affable con- stable. Andrew, she said slowly but firmly, it certainly does not pay to do wrong. In the terms of olden Greece ' the venegance of the Furies has fallen! ' Jean Barker. llo«| Drops In JpHERE was a light scratching at the door. Old Mr. Roberts put down his book and listened. He seemed annoyed. Again the scratching. Muttering, he went to the door and opened it. Just as I thought, he said disgustedly. There was a bedraggled, muddy, little dog who sat up at once, barking joyously. His ridiculous, short tail wagged against the floor. Off with you! yelled Roberts. He put out his foot to kick him back. The animal paid no attention but kept on begging and wagging his tail. Roberts just couldn ' t kick him. He slammed the door shut. The darn thing can stay there all night as far as I ' m concerned. He put out the light and went upstairs to bed. It started to rain. It poured! If I took in every stray dog that came on my porch — ! He got in bed and turned out the light. It poured harder. If he hadn ' t waved that ridiculous tail — besides he ' s probably drenched. He ' d drag in no end of mud. Furthermore I destest small dogs. He turned over, but he couldn ' t sleep. At that he wouldn ' t stay small. Maybe he ' s not so wet. It did seem sort of friendly to hear the little snore underneath his bed. He certainly was cute lapping up that warm milk in the kitchen. Roberts slept. Mary Carey. The ' Brook 1 am the brook, and I love to roam. I wander away from my wooded home. I see the elves, the fairies, the bees. I see all that the bluebird sees. By broad, green fields and purple hills, Down past the towns with their humming mills, I sing a song of bubbling glee, I sing as I ripple down toward the sea. Lelia Cayne.
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