T T
Warmer With Snow
It was the last of January, and
yet there had been no snow. Even
Christmas had been warm and dry.
Now dusk was gathering, quickly
and stealthily enshrouding the
town in darkness. The wind grew
more biting as it whipped around
buildings and down alleys, leaves
and papers fleeing like animals be
fore an oncoming f.re. Trolley cap
tains shivered at their stops as
frigid gusts blew in at the doors.
Here and there housewives darted
out for evening papers and rushed
back in, locking the doors securely
after them; for no sane person
■Would venture out tonight.
Tom Greene, lawyer, came in
from racing the car motor, re
moved his coat and muffler, and
Went in to where his family await
ed him at the table. “. . . and
bless this food to the nourishment
of our bodies.” He paused instead
ef saying the usual “Amen,” add-
mg, “Look down. Lord, on all
those who are less fortunate than
We. Bless them and keep them. In
His name we ask it. Amen.”
the empty burlap sack; then, drop
ping it to the floor, she picked up
the bucket and carried it inside.
Lifting the iron lid of the stove,
she carefully laid one lump down
in the glowing embers. Then
methodically she unfolded the bat
tered ironing board and hooked up
the iron. Outside, the wind
groaned, and the cheap apartment
house seemed to shudder under the
impact. A tree limb scraped the
side of the building. Marie shiv
ered. Getting her shabby grey coat
from the closet, she stole into the
children’s room. Tenderly she
stretched out the little arm that
was being lain on and cramped.
Then spreading the coat over the
twins, she gently tucked it around
them. Striking her foot against an
object, she stooped and picked up
a little shoe, muddy, scuffed, and
run over at the heels, with the soles
worn thin as paper. She looked at
Up on the Ridge, Mrs. Olivia
^nnStory was presenting tonight
ber charming niece from Miami,
and Olivia VanStory’s parties were
fbe height of everything elite—or
the papers said. Now, after
*aaking last minute inspections,
®be paused before a mirror on the
landing, highly pleased with her
*’®flection. The ballroom dazzled
fbe naked eye, the orchestra was
Iwiported from New York, and in
Ibe kitchen the hors d’oeuvres
looked divinely delectable. Ah, that
new French maid was priceless!
She Was a gem!
Elaine Gibson
it long with tired eyes, then let it
fall to the floor with a soft thud.
A slight commotion outside an-
hounced the arrival of guests. Ad-
Insting her pearls, Mrs. VanStory
nieticulously pushed back in place
n single stray hair; and, winking
sniugly to herself in the mirror,
she glided with practiced poise to
^'^oet her guests.
At 2024 East Main Street, Ma-
Carter emptied the last lumps
coal into a bucket. For a mo-
*nent she stared with disbelief at
“Another confounded month of
July!” swore a highly cultured
personality.
“No snow?” wailed a coquet
tish voice from the deep South.
She was answered, however, by
a careless arm thrown around her
dimpled shoulders and a reassur
ing drawl, “Don shu worry, baby.
The weather manish my besh
frenn.”
Marie Carter turned out the
fifty watt bulb, tucked the still
warm iron to the feet of the twins,
and stood looking out into the
night, the heavy darkness shutting
o-ff the garbage cans and dingy
back alley. She stood there a long
minute, remembering ... a rose
garden in June . . . hunting for
green paint for the cottage shut
ters . . . monogrammed towels
... a battered gray convertible
. . . Jim’s first bonus . . . and
then Salerno. A single tear slid
down her cheek and splashed on
the drab sill. In silent prayer, she
lifted her face to the sky. Then
softly, silently, almost stealthily,
the snow began to fall.
In the Green living room the
grandfather clock struck twelve.
Setting out the forgotten milk
bottles, Nora Greene paused to
check the oil guage and turn the
thermostat up one degree before
she crept back to bed.
My heart sings!
It’s springtime!
The world reawakens.
And with it, my spirit.
Welling up within me
Is a desire to dance.
To lift my face and be swept clean
By crisp breezes.
Olivia VanStory was in her
glory. The orchestra was magnifi
cent; the food, superb; and the
guests, tipsy. In the library a radio
was turned up for the one o’clock
forecast; and served and servant
alike paused, eager for news of
the threatening blizzard, as the
sleepy forecaster announced that
the blizzard had turned and that
the weather would be warmer with
light . . . The radio clicked off.
The smell of new earth
Makes me overflow.
The sight of daffodils,
gaily.
Makes me smile.
nodding
I want to feel the heat of the sun
To walk in woody lanes.
To lie on my back on a starry night
And see destiny in the skies.
This is youth!
—Blenda Huneycutt.
HILLTOP—PAGE SEVEN
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