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The Quiz and Quill Published by THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB of Otterbein College

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THE STAFF

Editor-in-Chief....

Nathalie Bungard

Associate Editor

Melinda Rickeltnan

Art Editor...........

....... Verda Deeter

Spring, 1966

Founded 1919

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB - 1965-1966 President ........................................................................... Pat Price Vice-President.................................................. ............. Stu Leichter Treasurer ................................................................... Bill Hankison Secretary ................................................................... Bene Dellinger Faculty Sponsors.......................................................... John Coulter Norman Chaney Alumni Relations ........................................................ Sarah Skaates Barbara Bamhouse Peter Bunce Nathalie Bungard Rachel Cring Verda Deeter Rene Dellinger Cheryl Goellner Ron Han ft Bill Hankison Stu Leichter

Larry Motz Pat Price Rod Reed Melinda Rickelman Paul D. Robinson Jinny Schott Carol Sorenson Betty Steckman Linda Zimmers HONORARY MEMBERS

Walter Jones Dr. John Laubach Dr. Harold Hancock

Mrs. Hazel H. Price Dr. Robert Price

Ihe task of reading, judging, and selecting the winning manu scripts is certainly a difficult one. We the members and advisors of the Quiz and Quill Club would like to express their apprecia tion and special thanks to this year’s judges.

Two

LITERARY AWARDS Ou iz and Quill Poetry Contest First Prize .................................................................... Rachel Cring Second Prize ................................................................. Paula Kurth Third Prize ................................................................... Jinny Schott Honorable Mentions ............................................. Nathalie Bungard Verda Deeter Terry Dillion Rod Reed Quiz and Quill Prose Contest First Prize... Second Prize Third Prize ..

...................................................... Linda Zimmers ....................................................... Verda Deeter .................................................... Charlene Zundel

Honorable Mentions

Pat Price Betty Steckman

Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest First Prize ............................................... .................... Second Prize ............................................................. Rene Dellinger Third Prize ................................................................... Honorable Mention.............................................................. Pat Price Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest First Prize ................................................................ Stuart Leichter Second Prize ................................................................ Chris Foster Third Prize ...................................................................... Jinny Schott Honorable Mention .............................................................. Ron Hanft Roy A. Burkhart Religious Contest First Prize ................................................... Second Prize ................................................ Third Prize ................................................. Honorable Mention....................................................

R. H. Omdorff

Three

TABLE OF CONTENTS Confidence, Jinny Schott.........................................................

Haiku, Paula Kurth ...................................................................

Evolving Definition, Rachel Cring ........................................

Richard Klein ............................................................................

Illustration, Anne Barkley .......................................................

Student Of The Ages, Melinda Rickelman .............................

At Rest, Larry Edwards ...........................................................

Seasons Of A Pessimist, Ron Hanft.......................................

Undreamed Of Nemesis Blues, H. M, Corwin........................

Altruistic Me, Emily Smith......................................................

Thoughts (Revised), Saranne Price .......................................

Mute Wisdom, F. W. Ackerman.................................................

Faces, Charlene Zundel...........................................................

Illustration, Carolyn Carson ....................................................

Sketches, Betty Steckman ........................................................

Self, Virginia Hutchins ............................................................

Grrr-rowl!, Suzanne Cooksey ...................................................

You Sleep, Jinny Schott ...........................................................

The Irish Mother, Jinny Schott ...............................................

Fiance, Nathalie Bungard .......................................................

Reflection, Rachel Cring..........................................................

Tomorrow, Bev Putterbaugh ....................................................

We Speak, Verda Deeter ...........................................................

He’s Gone, Carolyn Dee Krumm..............................................

Childhood, Nathalie Bungard ..................................................

Sunday In The Park, Melinda Rickelman .............. .................

Illustration, Brenda Zoller .....................................................

Haiku, Rod Reed .................................................................. 18 Memory, Tina McCune...............................................................

Spring Brings Death, Chris Foster .........................................

Poeme, Terry Dillon .................................................................

Haiku, Rod Reed .......................................................................

“-It Goes On.”, Ron Hanft.......................................................

Four

Cherie Bartos ........................................................................

God Is Dead, Larry Edwards....................................................

Sing-Song, Melinda Rickelman .................................................

...hands..., r. h. omdorff..........................................................

Illustration, Betty Steckman .....................................................

The Four Seasons, Cheryl Goellner .......................................

Why And Child Cries, David Stichweh ...................................

Determinism, Emily Smith..................

Homecoming, Nathalie Bungard ............................................

To Earnest, With Love, Rachel Cring....................................

Experience, Carolyn Dee Krumm .............................................

Illustration, /oanne A1z7/er.........................................................

The Land Of The Stunted Pines, Betty Steckman................

Fragments, Pat Price ................................................................

Sea Treasurer, Charlene Zundel..............................................

Illustration, Chery Bowles

.....................................................

The Field, Betty Steckman ......................................................

Illustration, Betty Steckman .....................................................

Paula, Verda Deeter ..................................................................

The House By The Lake, Gary Wolf......................................

Illustration, Chery Bowles .....................................................

But No Thanks, Pat P rice .......................................................

The Great Greek Fraud, Stuart Leichter ................................

Illustration, Ann Barkley ..........................................................

Gueberschwihr: Wine Village In Alsace, Linda Zimmers....

Five

CONFIDENCE Jinny Schott I decided to die at the age of twenty Of a famous disease. They would miss me plenty. But now I am twenty-one and so I’ve decided to give life another go. ★

★

HAIKU Paula Kurth Second Place, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest The wind is chilly. And as I sit by the grave, I, too, become cold. ★

★

EVOLVING DEFINITION Rachel Cring Scruples . . . Aren’t they those things You dunk in coffee And eat?

★

Richard Klein A mam can — Follow a path, or Blaze one. Admire an art, or Create one. Seek others goals, or Find his own. Try others thoughts or Know what to feel. Live artificial, or Be the real.

Six

STUDENT OF THE AGES Melinda Hickelman Come, 0 student of the ages, Patron of the arts and Playboy, Seeker after wisdom and the Girls in Beta Phi Madras-clad and worry laden. Wandering in the lower depths of Higher math and early Shelley, Outer space and inner I, Listener of flute recitals. Peddler of used books and future Notary of this republic. Dodger of the truth Measurer of vague statistics. Status seeker with distinction. Staunch defier of convention. Ready joiner of the Group Hark, 0 scholar apathetic. Thonged, sweatshirted, halfly-shaven, Sipper of the Fount of Knowledge And the local tavern’s brew. Critic of uncultured masses. Organizer, demonstrator, Memorizer, complicator. Uncle Sam has need of you! ★

★

AT REST Larry Edwards Some call it living. Others call it life. From what I’ve seen Of wars and strife, I hold with those Who call it life. Before I go To my final reward, I have but one request; Inscribe my name Upon a small stone And simply say “At rest.’’

Eight

SEASONS OF A PESSIMIST Ron Ilanft Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Winter whiteness Clean and pure But underneath There’s still manure. Spring’s the thing That starts love’s craze And then it rains On wedding days. Summer old Summer new Summer tried But never true. Fall, rotten limbs Back to earth Where thy decadence Might prove some worth.

★

UNDREAMED OF NEMESIS BLUES H. M. Corwin Well, I woke up in the morning; there was forks inside my brains. The people they were pleading “Quit driving me insane!’’ The little doll got broken. The desert looked like rain. The idols they were stolen. The dogs howled at the train. The stereo tube’s burnt out; the records all are scratched. There’s duck eggs in the parlor, but only one of them is hatched. I was standing at a hockey game; a puck flew in my mouth; I spit it out quite quickly. The birds are flying south. The bartender’s wearing lipstick; says “Dad, you need a drink.’’ I want a Comet Cleanser Cocktail;’’ he fell down in the sink. His wife was screamin’ badly, “Look now what you done!’’ The drunkards wanted to roll me. I did it all for fun! »

The The The The

election, it was over; the voters all went home. candidate — became President; they sent him off to Rome. magician’s kind’a silly. The new bride only moped. stoplight’s turning purple; the drink I drank was doped!

Nine

ALTRUISTIC ME Emily Smith

I really like people, don’t get me wrong, But you don’t want them all in your hair; Let the God above Who doles out love Listen and answer my prayer: My Father, take pity on your other sheep. The ones in the pastures bare — The ghetto slums (The starving bums) Send food and comfort there. Oh yes, and give them the will to live And hope for years to come; 0 clean the streets (Delinquent beats) And make the fact’ries hum. Now that I’ve prayed for others’ good Thus saving them from strife, God grant to me A martyr’s degree And insured eternal life. (Nevertheless, not Thy will but Mine be done.) A-hem. ★

★

THOUGHTS (Revised) Saranne Price Across this page a cricket jerked in haste To its preconceived destination. But soon it fell, its insect jerks a waste. Yet still hopped on, by some queer motivation. A minute insect does not preconceive; It simply crawls and falls throughout existence Without virtue, in which it can believe. Or vice, against which it can set resistance. Could I be like that cricket, with no meaning. To stumble blindly on my page of life? Or should I use my senses, stop careening; Determine what is worth the work and strife: I value life, to me a gift so dear. My senses call my answer, true and clear.

MUTE WISTOM F. W. Ack erman The ancient, vine-encrusted fence Bears vsritness to the time — When men had labored at its posts: Elements in their prime. Its wire sags from rain and age, Beyond recall of when — It watched in silence at the wrongs It couldn’t hope to mend. Uncounted Autumns now ignore This crop they can not frost; Respectfully, they leave the chore And deem the harvest lost. The by-gone barrier’s muteness Conceals all the lore — That it had gathered once because Its builders are no more. Nostalgia lures the passer-by And mellows brazen thought. The passer leaves his day-time wars. Which drift away unfought. But social stresses of our time Must cause a man to jeer At hearth-stone tales which once, the old Agrarian loved to hear. But thoughtfully one notes at length The imminent decline Of elder peoples’ artifacts. Memoirs of the Great Design. ★

★

FACES Charlene Zundel The city is faces — of young men, butter is their years of trial and error; of businessmen, pushing toward the top, exhausted by existence; of old men, now tired and silent in their memories; of mothers, smiling to hide the tears which have made them old; of children, looking up, reaching out - not yet convinced to stop laughing.

Eleven

Twelve

SKETCHES Betty Steckman Express to Steubenville, Wheeling, Pittsburgh, Harrisburg, Philadelphia, and New York City now boarding at Gate 3. All aboard, please.” Huddling over his ancient cane, the old Negro gazes with bloodshot unblinking eyes into the jostling throng. A few travelers, unused to bus terminals, give him a vaguely curious stare as they bustle past; otherwise he is ignored. Mumbling softly to no one in particular, he seems unaware that his damp cigarette stub is beginning to endanger his sunken lips. In fact, lie seems unaware of the whole world, meditating like a black wooden buddha on a black wooden bench. ★

★

SELF Virginia Hutchins I am the judas priest. And the christ weeping for Judas. I am every dispassionate mud puddle; In Spring, I am the last patch of snow to melt. And I am Autumn’s first dead leaf. I am Alone. ★

★

GRRR-ROWL! Suzanne Cooksey Silent prayer and meditation are again disrupted by the absurd reverberation of a great soniferous noise. Like the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Graveyard silence resumes, but is too soon broken. Broken by a growling lion-like roar. Prudish parishioners turn their heads, glaring, staring. Shooting amber glowing arrows from their eyes. But can the annoying scream be squelched? No, it cannot, I say! The hollow bottomless pit will continue to complain until some tasty morsel comes to ease it of the pain.

Thirteen

YOU SLEEP Jinny Scholl Third Place, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest You lay your tongue between the lips of Death And lie upon her breast as night grows near. In the jungle you hear your lover’s breath Beat against the door. You revolve in fear Of what? Death in your arms will never make You part this place. She will bring you silence. Night will never end for you, and that ache You felt ends now. So begins all pretense. You smile. Oh, how lovely it is to die. It is so hard to live. Melt in the wind. Sleep, and let the jungle lover defy Doors that can’t be opened against the mind. Let Love reach out her hand to beat the door. Death will always win. She soothes you more ★

★

THE IRISH MOTHER Jinny Schott Third Place, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest My daughter was cannonized a saint By the pope the other day. But I remember she’d run through mud When I’d dress her up to pray. ★

★

fiance'^

Nathalie Bungard Meekly you trail behind your bride-to-be, and say something coherent — occasionally — such as: “This china is sorta like that Howard Johnson’s uses,’’ or “This sure is a thin glass,’’ as you clumsily examine a Waterford goblet. And you poor, dear, uninformed male as you gulp hard to try and hide your shock at the prices. But then seeing the excited and loving look she gives the Spode, you smile and mumble that you like it too as you gently lead her out into the afternoon sun.

Fourteen

REFLECTION Rachel Cring First Place, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest Spring was gray eyes and laughter. And Irish charm without mercy. It was “aunt” in a Boston accent. Blue chalk on a thumb. And Willie Mosconi. It was knowing he waited under the Wicked Tree, Where the sparrow of ill repute Received her callers. Spring was a red kite hanging, looped around a telephone wire. It was laughter and a red kite hanging, looped ... Winter is a fragment of colorless paper and rotting string. Hanging, Ready to fall, And disappear. ★

★

TOMORROW Bev Putterbaugh Tonight we pretend. We smile, we laugh, we discuss the weather. Tomorrow is the end. You will go back to her. And tonight will have never been.

★

WE SPEAK Verda Deeter Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest we speak yet never to each other talk our thoughts leap over rivers they fly while words must wade to cross then your eyes catch my thoughts and stretch them taught — like cables — cables to support a bridge where someday words will walk

Fifteen

HE’S GONE Carolyn Dee Krumm

It’s strange. It ended like that. He loved you And the pleasure you gave him. Now he’s gone, Claimed by you which he loved best. He sat on your banks, His pole in your waters as usual for a spring evening. And then, he was gone — Into the waters in which he fished. Only you saw the slip. And your waters don’t yield the secret. ★

★

CHILDHOOD Nathalie Hungard Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest Rounded yellow mass lazily soaring God-ward . . . helium balloon . . . ★

★

SLNDAY IN THE PARK Melinda Hickelman A sunny blonde of scant three years Giggles and toddles pebble-over-stubble Up to the rusting slide. Reaching, stepping higher, higher look Mom, see Mom, watch me now Mom — Wheee! what a carefree ride. Pastel painted concrete pipes Filled up with little heads ’n heels ’n hands Tunnel ’til near dark. Sun-green grass whispers summer in lollipops ’n swings ’n just-fun things On Sunday in the park.

Sixteen

Seventeen

HAIKU Rod Reed Spider floating on A silk thread. I give you a Ride across the room. ★

★

MEMORY Tina McCune The scarlet candle flickered — succumbed. Only the bent, hot wick remained Of the flame that was. ★

★

SPRING BRINGS DEATH Chris Foster Second Place, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest Spring rains came down, gurgling the ground so swiftly. An ant! Blub! Blub! ★

★

POEME Terry Dillon Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest Mon coeur me dit fremir Ma tSte me dit donnir Le temps me dit courir L’inconnu me dit tirer La bonheur me dit pleurer Une heure me dit aimer A

0 Vie confuse, je les fais!

★

Eighteen

★

HAIKU Rod Reed Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest Clever bumblebee. Commuting on this train. But Why go to Boston? ★

★

IT GOES ON.” Ron Hanft In bloody subjection Comes the end of what we Thought immortal. Aloneness leaves us to Walk the crests of waving Grain and pavement. Yet some one, some thing in The ancient or the new Will always be. Seeds and blossoms never Weep; you are you alone. And always were. Go, sing alleluia! Over the dead body Of your best friend.

★

Nineteen

Cherie Barlos N.Y. abbreviated lives abbreviated faces lost in the slur of hushed humanity of bowed heads of eyes lowered, staring on straight yellow lines embossed in concrete. They pass one-another, silent sober self-engrossed, Never recognizing the heart or hope or hell of their own spirit in passing faces.

★

GOD IS DEAD Larry Edwards I’ve heard it said That God is dead. The rumor’s going ’round. My neighbor told me Just last night, A reliable source. I’ll own. If anybody knows Of the death of God, He should be the one. He’s pastor of the First Church Of town (it’s just across the way). He used the rumor for his thesis In a sermon the other day. He’ll say it again; for He’s said it in the past. I wonder though (now and then). Who, in our universe vast. Will have the final word On the rumor, and be TTie One to laugh last.

Twenty

SING-SONG Melinda Rickelman Sing a song of stoggy students Standing in a row All the collars buttoned-down, All the necklines low All opinions quite unformed and All expressions pained, All eyes fixed on nothing much. Every smile restrained Each one’s person quite concealed. Every mask in place. Every feeling unrevealed. Each without a face Faceless Stationed Each one Elach one

figures every one. there ’til June, sings the same sing-song — out of tune.

★

. . . hands . . . r. h. orndorff Honorable Mention, Roy Burkhart Contest i say unto you, o man and woman, when you love, you are intertwined, you are four arms, four legs, and two bodies together; your minds are full, yet you are only as God in prayer, you are His fingers clasped, and His palms together. and together you are swept into His world, the world of creation. when you and your woman part, you part in gladness and in peace. you are like the two hands of God, you go forth and build. you, o man and woman, are the builders, you are the builders of all things, all things foreign to the world. and it should be so, for you are the Holy carpenters.

Twenty-One

JSEET^

Twenty-Two

THE FOUR SEASONS Cheryl Goellner Spring This crazy world of cherry cokes/ and kisses — calculations tossed in as to how many revolutions the earth makes in 14,567^ days/ like i feel lost/ and dizzy/ all kind of topsy-turvy — gone. hold me down/ or the centrifigal force may fling me out to nowhere. Summer it’s cool boy — neat/ like walking in a pond of clear blue water/ wading waist deep, god! i have ta dive in or loose my existence, an then i’ll see if/ as sages say/ soul isn’t — only self exists. Fall smooth sailing over a clear glass mirror/ reflectin all sweet an nothingness/ surrounding a blue light of soft sleep — an hot legs shifting under a cool/ blue cool sheet, boy/ like ultimate life/ perfect for the end of a day. Winter when i’m like moody/ an seem ta get irritated over trifles — like findin some clothes left too long an mildewed/ or droppin a dish ta my best set. an i seem ta make these little clumsynesses into proportions/ which you cannot understand. then take my hand — squeezin just anough so’s i can know you’re there ta lean on.

★

Twenty-Three

WHY AND CHILD CRIES David Stichweh I stand and I stare Down a dirty ol’ street Where human people try to live And find enough to eat; I stand and I stare At a dirty ol’ shack With its walls falling in And no door at its back; I stand and I stare At a dirty ol’ room With cardboard for walls And lighted by gloom; I stand and I stare At a dirty little child Whose skin is black And whose mouth cries wild; I stand and I stare Into his eyes That are pleading an answer Not merely lies; They ask why must some men Suffer the weight Of indignity and fear Of prejudice and hate; They ask why must some men Die in the night And be called less then human Because they’re not white; They ask why can’t some men Be allowed to live And feel the pride That self-dignity can give; They ask why can’t all men Walk the face of this earth And stand side by side All equal in worth? I stand, my heart empty, Unable to give An answer to a child Or dignity to a man.

DETERMINISM Emily Smith How free is man, or is he really free? What is it that determines how he acts? Is every move from some causality, Or does he choose the things he does from facts? What is there that makes him think that he Can make decisions which affect his soul? Why is there the paradox that we Are only free when under some control? ’Tis God who has determined life is good. But He has granted us alternative. If our response were humble and we could Take up His yoke, we would be free to live. As thus the sonnet’s shackles have forme Provided outlet and a liberty. ★

★

HOMECOMING Nathalie Bungard in Just — fall whan the world is xanthrophylled the stout little referee whistles loud and

shrill

and nickyandchris come careening via hondas and mustangs and it’s fall when the world is pigskin-wonderful the red faced referee whistles loud and shrill and heatherandhitty come strolling in david dows and channels and it’s fall and the exhausted referee whistles loud and shrill

Twenty-Five

TO EARNEST, WITH LOVE Rachel Cring

Will you ever forget the day in the library When we wrote out the words for your confirmation Phonetically? You had never taken Latin, And I’d had two years, So we worked together and wrote out The whole thing. Sirsuum kordah, etc. When I think back, two things come to mind. First of all, it’s a wonder we weren’t both Permanently ostrasized from the library. (But then. Uncle Jake was always so patient.) And secondly. It’s a good thing you decided not to be a priest. (You and your Jewish nose!) Like you said — Think of writing out a whole mass Phonetically.

★

EXPERIENCE Carolyn Dee Krumm I have studied the campfires of summer evenings and the crisp frost of autumn mornings and the green newness of a spring day about to be bom — and I have heard the whispered clues. 1 have listened to Homer and Virgil and Plato and Aristotle. I have seen Hannibal, Caesar, Alexander, and Antony conquer. I have watched Judas and Napoleon and Hitler fall. I have built nations and destroyed them in the instant of their creation. I have split the atom and invented the steam engine and de veloped animal classification. I have discovered America and sailed into space and lived in Antarctica. I know hatred and chaos and war and death. But I know peace in a struggling world, and order in the midst of confusion, and the Master among little men. I have taken a step.

Twenty-Six

Twenty Seven

THE LAND OF THE STENTED PINES Betty Steckman Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Prose Contest The trees are different here; everything is different. Even the weeds are strange-looking. Instead of dandelions and crabgrass, you see the glittering, deadly sundew, with its sticky droplets that attract, hold, and digest insects; and pitcher plants, half full of powerful liquid that, like the sundew, attracts and digests its victims. Tiny orchids also grow here, little delicate lavender flowers hidden among the coarse sandweed. The earth itself is not rich and fertile-looking; it is graywhite sand that shifts under your feet and ripples into dunes around the trees. And the trees are stunted and small. Most are evergreens, scraggy and lean. Whole areas of the forests have been burned, and acres of charred black stumps bristle from the gray sand and brown bushes. Streams are numerous, but even here the water is unlike most water. Its lovely brown tint comes from the cedar trees along its banks. But white cloth dipped into this water will come out a permanent brown. You can drive for hours in this country without seeing an other car, another human being. But you may be observed, for the strange hermit-like folk of the pine barrens are quick to sense a stranger. You will probably never see a piney, as these people are called, nor will you find a dwelling. Some of their villages are marked on maps; all are in out-of-the-way places. Their place names are strange and fascinating: Ong’s Hat, Long a-coming, Batsto, Cow Tongue, No More. But you are constantly aware of the swarm of life around you. Desolate as the area is, it is a paradise for insects. Flies of all descriptions buzz around you — green ones, black ones, little ones, big ones, stinging flies and harmless flies. Beetles scuttle under rocks; dragonflies dip and dart over the quiet waters. Katydids, crickets, spring peepers, and locusts announce the seasons noisily. Water boatmen row placidly upstream; water striders cross on the invisible surface tension. Daddy-long-legs race across the road, and wasps build their nests under the bridges. The air is always alive with the loud hum of the forest insects. Where there are insects, there are also birds. Swifts dart over the waters in the evening, looping and soaring. Thousands of invisible birds scream at you from the trees; flocks migrating south or returning north often stop here on their way. An oc casional seagull flies in from the coast. Everything is strange here. In the midst of swarming life there is utter desolation; hidden in the wilderness are countless watching eyes. This is the Pine Barrens of New Jersey.

Twenty-Eight

FRAGMENTS Pat Price Some months ago I began building a clay pot. I had no parti cular design in mind, but I followed the familiar steps of rolling out the clay, cutting it, fitting the pieces together. Cold, damp, lifeless, the clay was passive. I began to smooth away the seams. The clay responded to my touch. I patted it here, pushed it there, and each time there was a response, if only slight. And I responded to it. We worked together with results sometimes pleasing, sometimes disap pointing. I stopped in discouragement many times, wrapping rags and plastic around the form and setting it aside. Perhaps ITl come back to it later, I thought. Perhaps not. I began other pieces, but before long I would find my attention drawn once more to the pot. My fingers would tear away the covering and I would gaze at it, eager to try again. And so we began again . . . and again . . . and again. Before long I found myself devoting full attention to it. The other pieces forgotten, they remained cold, damp, lifeless. But the pot ... It was almost a living thing. It absorbed my warmth, it moved, it grew, and I loved it. Time passed unnoticed. The finishing touches made, my hands caressed the soft, moist clay for the last time as I set the pot to dry. It was beautiful, everyone agreed. Full and strong, it had "'character” they said. Never made to follow a sketch or a model, it just happened; it grew. And I looked at it often with wonder. The day came when I gave it to the master to be fired in the kiln. And I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. The pot . . . the wonderful, beautiful clay pot. When at last I saw it again, I could only stare in disbelief. Could this really be the same one? Pieces had cracked off in the firing and lay beside it on the table. I couldn’t understand it . . . the pot had seemed so strong. ‘‘It looked dry, but it was still damp inside. The heat of the kiln was too much for it, and it cracked. It’s too bad,” said the master, ‘‘but that happens.” ‘‘Can’t I fix it?” I said. ‘‘Can’t I glue the pieces back on?” “You could try, I suppose . . .” I looked at the fragments, the crumbs of baked clay. “And if there’s nothing I can do?” “There’s one thing you can do. You can throw it away and begin again. You made one, you can make another.” “But this one ...” I remembered it as it used to be. I had lost myself in it, given myself to it willingly, and come alive as it did. And now . . . pieces. Too many pieces. I could try to patch it, but I couldn’t breathe life back into it. The life was

Twenty-Nine

gone. When I dropped it on the pile of broken pots it scarcely made a sound. “You were learning and exploring with this one,” he went on. “It was good experience for you. Now the next one will be even better.” “Maybe so,” I said. But I wasn’t ready to think about the next one. I was no longer in the mood.

★

SEA TREASURE Charlene Zundel Third PI ace, Quiz and Quill Prose Contest As the clouds covering the sun brought gloom and drops of rain, I left the crowded midway and turned toward the darkening ocean shore. Although 1 had always feared the waves, rushing and pounding on the beach, I was now drawn to them. I walked along the shore in the soft rain and watched my footprints appear for an instant, then soak into the sand. The crashing of the waves filled the air — the clamor of the midway faded. As 1 faced the ocean it was as if the midway did not exist. Yet the music and voices, faintly in the background, remind me of the others for whom the ocean was only the place where they could find the carnival. Now and then I stooped to find a shell or a small skeleton of sea life in the sand. Or I blinked and searched to find the source of a movement in the sand at my feet — a tiny creature dependent for life on the sand and the sea. I looked from the shore to the surging waves and sensed the endlessness of this world of sea and sand and sky. Then, turning to scan the beach, I saw the bright carnival lights in the distance. I was surprised to see how far I had walked. Almost without thinking, I turned emd started back, my eyes on the water along the shore. At each step my feet met the soaking sand and the cool water. My fingers held the small treasures I had found. As I walked, the carnival sounds grew louder and louder. Finally I looked up and started across the beach toward the lights. My steps were slowed by the loose, dry sand, and in a sudden breeze I felt cool and damp. The soft rain was still falling. Then, as if to awaken me from a dream, the sounds grew louder, the lights brighter. Looking back into the darkness of the beach, I could see nothing of the ocean. 1 shook the sand from my feet and stepped into my sandals, then onto the boardwalk. Saying nothing, 1 held tightly to my sea treasures.

Thirty

Thirty-One

THE FIELD Belly Sleckman

The field stretched warm and golden across the hill, belting the muted earth tones of the slope with a swaying, shimmering beige, green and brown at the roots. Above it, like a cap, the dark pine forest covered the crest of the hill. The field belonged to the children who lived here. A high thick hedge of wild raspberries separated it from the back yards, and generations of children had worn gaps here and there through it. It had been the childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s field as long as anyone could remember. Perhaps it was the head-high weeds that attracted them, or the sharp slope. Or perhaps it was only the loneliness and wilderness of the land beyond the home. For the children were only half tame. They knew how to use the sickle and the scythe, and they knew the weather signs and the time to plant and the time to harvest. But beyond the raspÂ berry hedge, they belonged no more to the little houses and gardens below. The world was green and gold and shimmering fantasy; the sun glowed in their cheeks and in their eyes, and touched their pale hair with golden light, and they belonged only to the world of the field. Occasionally you could see one of these tanned, slender children running toward the field with a sickle gleaming in her hand, for they sheared paths deep into its heart and made small clearings in which to dream and talk and play. There were, of course, other places to live, too. The pine forest on the top of the hill was one, but it lacked the magic of the field. It was dark and cool, and heavily overgrown with small bushes, and draped with poison ivy. The children preferred the sunny warmth of the meadow below. The rest of the hill was the world the adults knew. Down below the wild raspberry fence, the cropped yards lay, and the houses below them, painted a brave white to conceal their weariness. Beside them the little gardens stood high with corn and beans. Further down was an old shed, and still further down a line of tall ancient poplars. A road market the base of the slope, and a narrow twisted ribbon of shale and red clay snaked up the hill to the very top. But of all the places on the hill, the field was the best. When the summer sun began to graze the tips of the poplars, and the shadows grew long and purple, mothers would go to their back doors and call the children in. The sound of their voices would hang in the air for a long time, and gradually fade into the twilight, and the children would come reluctantly from their world of gold and blue and green fantasy and shimmering fields of adventure, through the wild raspberry thicket that marked the boundary of the two worlds.

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PAIJI.A Verda Deeter Second PI ace, Quiz and Quill Prose Contest I stood by the front door gazing out across a dreary February landscape. A thin fog hung limply in the air like a tattered gray rag. The fields and the road were sloppy with old snow. It was certainly not a pleasant day to be outside. I thought of Paula riding her rickety bicycle up the road to my house through the slush and fog. “She should be here by now,” I thought, glancing at my watch. She was more than ten minutes late already. I had given up being impatient with Paula long ago. She was always late. It was a good thing I had scheduled her piano lesson last on Saturday morning. Glancing at my watch again I noted that she was now fifteen minutes late. “Maybe she won’t come,” I thought. I peered out into the fog again. This time I saw her. Her red scarf was the first thing I saw emerging from the fog. Then I could see the rest of her, pedaling furiously with all the vitality of a wiry twelve-year old. As she wheeled up the driveway I marveled at the gracefulness this awkward, gangly child achieved in manuvering that bicycle. How could that child appear to be so coordinated on a bicycle and yet be so ridiculously clumsy on a piano bench? She hopped off the bike and grabbed her battered plastic music case from the basket. Halfway up the front steps she met the cat, and even though she was now over fifteen minutes late, she stooped to pet it. Paula loved animals. Her favorite strategy to delay a piano lesson was to tell me a story about one of her many pets. I opened the door and greeted her. “Good morning, Paula. Come right in and take off your coat.” She looked up. “Oh! Good morning,” she smiled. Paula’s smile was a sunny one although somewhat dingy because of her decay-darkened teeth. “How are you, Paula?” “0. K.,” she said, unbuttoning her ragged, hand-me-down coat. With a nervous hand she swept a lock of stringy dark hair back under her red scarf. Then she decided to take the scarf off. “Have you done some good practicing this week?” I asked in my cheeriest teacher voice. Her shifty dark eyes dropped their gaze to the music case in her hands. The case probably hadn’t been opened since last Saturday morning. “Well, Dad’s been sick,” she said quickly, “and he doesn’t like us kids to play the piano when he has a headache.” Paula’s father was an alcoholic and hadn’t been able to keep a job for almost a year. Since her family could not pay for her lessons, I had been giving them to her without charge.

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“Let’s go over to the piano, then, Paula. We’ll have a good practice session right now.’’ I took my place in the chair at one end of the piano and Paula sat down on the bench with a slump. I started to say something about correct posture, then I decided that this day I wouldn’t scold. “Do you have your F major scale?’’ I asked. “I dunno.’’ “Isn’t it in your notebook?’’ She shuffled through all her papers. “Yep, here it is.’’ In spite of her nervousness, the dingy smile appeared again, making her seem quite happy-go-lucky. “Will you play it for me?’’ She fidgeted and shifted position before lifting her thin, grimy hands to the keyboard. Her hands were in place; her nearly black eyes flitted from the music to her hands, then to my face. “Go ahead, Paula.’’ Her thin face twisted. She squinted at the music, bit her lip and began the F major scale on the key of A. “Now, Paula, are you sure that’s the right note?” We had been through this routine before. Paula never could remember that the F major scale began on F. At my prompting she remembered. She giggled and began on the right key. It took us many minutes to complete the eight notes of the scale, and when Paula finished we were both exhausted. She looked at me slyly from the corner of her eye. “Ya know what?” she asked gaily and with complete unconcern for her bungling efforts at the keyboard. “You tell me what, Paula.” I resigned myself to the fact that the music lesson was over. “Carl caught a blacksnake in the creek yesterday,” she informed me excitedly. “He killed it and threw it onto the roof. Mom gave him a lickin’ ’cause he couldn’t get it down.” She babbled on about the snake, then about her hamster, her collie and several other pets. As she talked spiritedly about her favorite subject, I watched her pinched and dirty face take on a rather attractive appearance. She actually looked intelligent when her eyes sparkled that way. Soon, however, nervous self-consciousness overtook her and she began to swing her skinny legs back and forth, kicking the piano. “Well, Paula,” I said, “it’s nearly noon. I bet your mother’s watching for you.” “Yeah. I guess so,” she said dispiritedly. She put on the too-small coat and the ragged red scarf. She gathered up her music and stuffed it into the worn case. “I’ll see you next week, Paula. Try to work on your ‘Toy Band piece for the next lesson.” I held the front door open

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for her. “G’-bye,” she said. “Good-bye, Paula.” I watched her mount her bike and waved to her as she rode down the driveway. I felt completely empty. She needed so much that I didn’t know how to give. I only tried to teach her the F major scale.

★

THE HOUSE BY THE LAKE Gary Wolf It was a misty morn, I remember it well; The light of the day was just beginning to swell. I tramped a shaded trail in the intimate mountains green And amusingly tried to cull landmarks I had once seen: The massive oaks, the rocky stream of the descending vale. And ol’ Bear Mountain, around which ne’er was a fence of rail. And, oh yes, over there is the ancient, renown grape swing. Where many-a-day was spent in the wonderland of spring. High atop a chestnut the old vine was wound. As out o’er the valley its holder would bound. With a running start you ride the stem as far as it would go. And glancing downward, see the actual hickory tops below. But now, ray path went down to the floor of the surrounding hill. As ahead, was a still clearing, its memoirs my mind did fill. Through hastening steps I advanced, and then did the light awake. As up the old hollow, I beheld the house by the lake. I stood alone and, by degrees, viewed the slight fog to clear. Upon which, my better view caused me to emit a tear. To my near left the trail went around the mere; Yet it was overgrown, not like yesteryear.

Thirty-Six

The day brightened as I traced it around to the cottage door, But the house I once knew to be radiant, remained no more. The boards on the porch were rotten and weak. And no doubt the roof was starting to leak. I carefully stepped up and entered through the portal. Just to see the increased absense of care and mortal. Indeed, I even saw a squirrel at work. Who, at seeing me, went completely berserk. The passage of days was noted quite well, it seems. By the rows of walnuts he had fixed on the beams. Patches of the sky were showing through overhead. Denoting the relic shingles that once were wed. The windows were askew and open to the blue. And so to a wren, that is curious and true. The walls of the cottage were spotted and stained By the rhythmic patter of when it had rained. Just one piece of furniture remained near the hearth: A decrepit old chair that once cradled a birth. I passed through the rooms, that were now empty and bare. To the weathered back porch and the fresh mountain air. From the slight rise I could not see the trail That wound to the spring close by in the dale. Now, the grove is a smooth area of grass and pine; While ago, it was broken by a little dirt line. Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;er the thicket I discovered the rock, with its flow eternal And also detected a fondness that was almost fraternal. The source created a stream, the latter a cascading brook. I saw its downward journey and the aquatic path it took. The fountain has remained for ages untold, never to quake; For itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the mother of the glen, and the father of a lake. With reluctance to leave, I climbed the neighboring hill. But I wanted another view of that lodge so still. At reaching the top, I turned, and for a time looked down. And then saw smoke encircling above the chimney roundâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. The smell of a hearth was in the bracing air, Althou^ only faintly, as it tarried there. From the house a lad appeared and skipped toward the lake. He stooped, and from the ground a shiny rock he did take. He hurled the stone the length of the country naves And waited for the splash and the concentric waves. Again and again he played and laughed his game, Until a soft voice from the porch called his name. A soothing breeze broke my dream with the fineness of a hone. And I found myself standing in the wilderness alone. The coolness of evening was coming over the land. So too was the beauty of the Invisible Hand. Mirrored in the lake was the house forlorn. The once glowing fireside where I was born.

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

BUT NO THANKS Pat Price Honorable Mention, Quiz and Quill Short Story Contest It was one of those sudden, driving rains. He was scarcely aware of the fast movement of the windshield wipers as he strained to see the road. He wiped the inside glass with the back of his hand, half expecting his vision to improve, and repeated this vain gesture while moving on through the black, wet night. The trip home was going to take a lot longer than he had expected, and he knew his wife would still be waiting up. A hazy light loomed out of the darkness, and he passed a neon sign advertising a vacancy at Steve’s Motel. Then, darkness once more, broken only by the beams of his headlights. Suddenly, within the confines of the beams appeared a dark form walking close to the pavement. Not until he had come within a few feet of it and the being turned around did he recognize it as a young woman. “What in the world!...” he thought, pulled the car off the road, and stopped. “You better get outta the storm. Miss. Can I offer you a ride?” She didn’t answer. She didn’t even move. She just stood there, clutching her wet coat tightly about her. Lightning streaked across the sky. “Hurry,” he said, “hop in.” She jumped in the car and shut the door just as the thunder broke. “Your door locked?” he asked automatically, easing the car back onto tbe highway. She stared at him. He smiled. “I guess I say that any more without even thinking. I always have to remind the kids. Where can I take you? Do you live in town?” She turned to look straight ahead. “You can drop me off at Simon’s. I live near there. You know where it is?” He had heard of Simon’s. Simon’s Bar & Grill was the official name. He’d seen the faded lettering on the window of that dingy little place a few times when driving through the east side of town. “Well,” he offered, “I could just as easily drive you to wherever you live, as long as I’m going to the east side.” “No thanks, Simon’s is fine.” “Okay,” he said, and smiled. But she wasn’t looking. “You must feel awful in those wet clothes. There’s a blanket on the back seat. Take your coat off and put that around you.” “No, it’s all right,” she said, “It’s not far.” “Nonsense, it’s eight or nine miles. You could have pneu monia by then. Go ahead, grab the blanket. I’ll turn the heater up. Tell me if it gets too hot, okay?”

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She draped her coat and scarf over the seat between them, and wrapped herself in the heavy blanket. She tried to dry her face with a comer,of it, but water continued to drip from her hair. She leaned over and squeezed some of it onto the floor. He noticed but didn’t say anything. He noticed, too, the puddle forming on the seat between them. Much of it had already soaked into the upholstery, the rest he bmshed off with his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, and started to move the coat. He was embarrassed. “That’s all right,” he said, “leave it there. Take your shoes off, too, if you want to. Put ’em under the blower. They might be dry by the time I let you off. He looked at her, hoping she had changed her mind about going to Simon’s. It just didn’t seem like the place for a young woman alone. But she said nothing, slipping her shoes under the heater as he’d suggested. “You picked a fine night for a walk,” he said, and laughed a little, attempting conversation.” She didn’t comment. She was searching through her handbag. “How strange,” he thought, “a woman walking along the highway in the storm .... Where did she come from? — the motel? — or somebody else’s car? And why Simon’s — didn’t she have any place else to go?” He wanted to help her — he was sure she needed help. She turned to him. “Do you have a cigarette?” “No, I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t smoke. There might be a pack of gum in the glove compartment, though.” “No thanks.” He resumed speculation. “Maybe she needs a place to stay. I suppose I could offer to take her home with me. If I explained it to Fran, she wouldn’t mind, . . . just for the night until she gets a place to stay. . .” “Don’t misunderstand,” he began, and she looked at him, “but if you need a place to stay, my wife and I . . .” “Thanks, but I have a place to stay.” “Oh,” he cleared his throat and began wiping the inside of the windshield again. They rode in silence. “I must have offended her,” he thought, and it bothered him. After all, he only wanted to help her. Why didn’t she say some thing? Whatever her problem was — and he was sure she had a problem - why didn’t she say something, ask him for help? He was willing to listen, to do whatever he could . . . But she just sat there, facing the window, her head pressed against the back of the seat. Were her eyes closed? He couldn’t tell. He turned on the radio, hoping to find some music to break the barrier. Nothing but static. He turned it off. They were nearing the town now, the first lights they’d seen. He kept trying to think of something he could say to her, some thing he could do. But he couldn t, and so tried to concentrate

Forty

on finding Simon’s. She was removing the blanket and putting on her shoes again. “We must be closer than I thought,’’ he said to himself, and then to her: “Let’s see, it’s two streets up on the right, isn’t it?” “The next street,” she said. “That’s right .... Say, you can just throw that ole blanket on the back seat, the kids play with it anyway.” She was again fumbling through her purse when he turned the corner and approached the front of Simon’s Bar & Grill. He stopped the car. “I don’t have any money with me,” she began, “or I would...” “Well, then,” he said, reaching for his wallet. If a few dollars would help her out that was the least he could do for her. “Here,” he offered, “will this help?” She stared at him, ignoring the money. Then all at once she shook her head, picked up her coat, and got out of the car. “Thanks anyway for the ride.”

★

THE GREAT GREEK FRAUD Stuart Leichter First Place, Quiz and Quill Humorous Writing Contest George Bernard Shaw and Sigmund Freud, to name two, grew medium-long beards. Their faces are familiar ones. So are the faces on the Greek statues and busts. But those old Greek faces look nothing like the face of G.B.S. or Siggy. It’s not just the eyes. The utter misresemblance goes far beyond the presence or absence of eye innards. Why do all the Greek and Roman statues have every man with beautiful, curly-curly hair and beards? That’s supposed to be what the typical classical Greek looked like. Certainly he did. One reason that Shaw loses the Aesop look-alike contest is because Shaw had poker-straight hair. But what about Karl Marx? He had curly-curly hair, and he has to really lose. And none of the women had that look, either; it only showed up on the men. Helen didn’t have it; Venus didn’t have it; and none of the Vestil Virgins had it. The statues of these women all show

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nice, sometimes wavy, sometimes strai^t, but always coifed hair. There is something kinky in Arcadia. Thus is the great Greek fraud. It was the cause of the un fortunate Hair Syndrome in all hitherto existing art and folklore. First, the Greeks had a gift for art. During their heyday, beards were In, but the great wise men and oracles knew that sooner or later, beards would be Out; and who wants to create a magnifi cent thing like the Colossus of Rhodes and chisel a fuzzy beard onto it? Well, beards were sooner and later Out, so those wise Greeks hammered into their art what has since been called the “Greek Ideal.” Michelangelo succumbed to the Hair Syndrome. He fell for the Greek Ideal like Paris fell f<5r the apple. Observe his statue of Moses. It’s got all that beautiful curly-curly hair. Every other representation of some Hebrew prophet or Old Testament figure has a long, fuzzy beard like my grandfather’s rabbi had. Then George Chapman fell for it and even translated it into English so that everyone in his land could know about the beautiful curly tresses which Homer described so well through his teeth. It would have been all right if no one had read Chap man; at least not a poor adolescent. But young John Keats had nothing better to do except to feed his romantic brain with im pressionistic, dirty lies about beauty; which to him became capital “B” beauty. That wasn’t enough. He had to look at the curly hair on burial urns and write curly-curly poems. He paid for it. Blackwood’s did not believe that curly hair was a joy forever, and it tried to expose the Syndrome. It killed Keats. Then Shelley tried to defend it and Byron tried to save it. They died for The Cause. Only a fool believes not in a fuzzy beard. One must wonder who motion pictures and plays never re present Greeks and Romans to suit one’s own impression of them. Kirk Douglas had the perfect body and character to portray Ulysses on the screen. He even grew his own beard. But the movie failed because Kirk’s beard was fuzzy; and red. It is impossible for that Greek hair to exist. It never did and it never will, except downstairs from the marine life exhibit and dinosaur bones, in the minds of Iliad readers, and on the covers Edith Hamilton’s mythology books. The old Greeks were shrewd and based their immortality on fake hair. They knew we would call them classic and give them the only Golden Age in history. But it has gone too far. When fellows like Byron and Keats get killed because of a blind, false notion of beauty, someone ought to smash every Greek and Roman statue to bits, and break off everyone’s Platonic love affairs. The modern scholar of ancient Greek in search of the truth of the Iliad or of the Odyssey need only to pause at the statues and look into the blank, hollow, missing eyes of Plato or Socrates and ask: “Alas; did he, or didn’t he?”

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Forty-Three

GUEBEKSCHWIHR: WINE VILLAGE IN ALSACE Linda Zimmers First Place, Quiz and Quill Prose Contest The journey to the village was a pleasant drive amid rows of thick poplar trees lining a smooth and modem roadbed. But at last we turned off and soon the present decade vanished with the black pavement. Up a slight incline we slowed to a horse’s pace in order to avoid hitting the people or carts. Then we abandoned the auto mobile. It was unneeded and unwanted in such a locality. The streets and position of the buildings first caught the eye. There was the usual old village atmosphere: hilly, narrow cobbled streets; barren gray or reddish buildings; tiny, cobwebbed spaces between houses and holes in the walls. The village was a tortuous network of alleyways with sudden up or down drops and quick curves, such that one could easily run headlong into some resident or, more humorously, into some pokey but brawny dobbin. Of course an old draft horse wouldn’t mind this meeting at all, but suddenly finding oneself eye to eye with one of them could prove quite startling! The day that we visited this hamlet was a hopeful neap-spring day, somewhat hazy but mild. As we wandered excitedly up and down, we passed several small wagons standing beside barns — the barns obviously identified only from the nature of the acti vity. Rough and stocky men loaded the carts with steamy, smelly manure, mostly of the chevaline type. Using some detective skill, one might deduce then that practically the only animals owned by the villagers are these draft horses, essential to the work, and also, perhaps, a few cows and goats. We then left the exact limits of the huddled two-story structures; immediately outside lay the all-important fields. At this time of year the dried remnants of vines were staked in fairly straight rows that rolled up and down sharp hills and suddenly stopped more quickly than a midwestem-comfield-viewing eye expected. When I saw how these plants were situated in the fields and the fields respectively on the landscape, I agreed that only horses could profitably work the fields. And that was fortunate, anyway, as far as my personal preference was concerned. As we ambled gingerly over the super-soft paths towards the buildings again, my companion excitedly told me stories of gay grape-harvests. As happens in the USA, it seems that whole fields are ripe at once so that the picking is frenzied at times, but all the more thrilling because there is an incentive of speed involved.

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Back in one of those same quiet streets, we abruptly stopped at an old wooden door which led into a small courtyard. From the outside you would think there weren’t any openings to these habitations at all, they were so adequately walled up. But here beyond an ancient portal was the family’s abode: very private, very plain, very small. I was introduced first to the stable section of the residence. My love of horseflesh must have been showing! Next we stepped down into the cellar, which also served as the center of vinifica tion. I saw a tiny grape press and a bottling apparatus. Here the head of the house straddled a bench and alternated bottles under a pressured spigot, then jammed a cork into each hole, joyously splashing a few squirts of the white alcohol with each movement. Having admired the family-operated business a short while, we mounted a rickety staircase to take part in some real Alsatian refreshment. Ah, the rich, welcome coffee on that damp day! Matched with the lightly-dusted, fine “Kugelhopf” (a yellow, cake-like bread “native” to Alsace), this hot liquid knocked all chill and loneliness out of me. While we paused to eat, I had an opportunity to look over the living quarters more carefully. The whole family lived upstairs in three tiny and dilpidated rooms. Evidently the happiness of the group did not depend in any way on their material posses sions, except for the full kegs of wine below, perhaps. The walls were drab, decorated only here and there with small religious plaques and crucifixes. The ceilings were very low and the floor of this main room where we sat sloped haphazardly down to the door of the kitchen where a slight step down drew the line between eating and preparing. The dark kitchen beyond contained only the most primitive and basic of utilities. And the third room off to the left served at once as a more formal sitting room and as a sleeping room. When the cramped area began to hamper our youthful spirits again, we slipped out for a final tour of the community. We followed a rising street until we reached a promontory dominating the rest of the neighborhood. Here, logically, the parish church was located. It was of low and heavy Romanesque style, unlike many French churches, but inside we found the usual musty cathedral smell of old flowers and dusty walls. There was one lively feature to the Interior, however. It was rather lavishly covered with elegant and refined paintings of the Virgin, angels, and saints. And finally returning to the car, we came down into the public square — not at all a vast area, but simply a space marked by one water trough and a town hall where banns of marriage and public decrees were posted.

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The visit was too short! But nonetheless remarkable: It had been truly a step back into the past. A unique visit to a decaying, or maybe just fermenting, old locality which has evoked many a pungent and sentimental memory since.

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Forty-Six

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