TheEarlyStoriesofTrumanCapoteisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentsaretheproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactual

events,locales,orpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

Copyright©2015byTheTrumanCapoteLiteraryTrustForewordcopyright©2015byHiltonAls

Afterwordcopyright©2015byPenguinRandomHouseLLCBiographicalnotecopyright©1993byPenguinRandomHouseLLC

Allrightsreserved.

PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyRandomHouse,animprintanddivisionofRandomHouseLLC,aPenguinRandomHouseCompany,NewYork.

RANDOMHOUSEandtheHOUSEcolophonareregisteredtrademarksofPenguinRandomHouseLLC.

ThefollowingstorieswereoriginallypublishedinTheGreenWitch:“PartingoftheWay”(January1940);“SwampTerror”(June1940);“TheMothintheFlame”(December1940);“MissBelleRankin”(December1941);“Hilda,”“Louise,”and“Lucy”(allMay1941).ThefollowingstoriesappearedinGermaninZeitin2013:“SwampTerror,”“MissBelleRankin,”and“ThisIsfor

Jamie.”

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataCapote,Truman,1924–1984.

[Shortstories.Selections]TheearlystoriesofTrumanCapote/TrumanCapote;forewordbyHiltonAls.

pagescmISBN978-0-8129-9822-1

eBookISBN978-0-8129-9823-8I.Title.

PS3505.A59A62015813'.54—dc232015011437

eBookISBN 9780812998238

randomhousebooks.com

BookdesignbySusanTurner,adaptedforeBook

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Contents

CoverTitlePage

Copyright

ForewordbyHiltonAls

PartingoftheWay

MillStore

Hilda

MissBelleRankin

IfIForgetYou

TheMothintheFlame

SwampTerror

TheFamiliarStranger

Louise

ThisIsforJamie

Lucy

TrafficWest

KindredSpirits

WheretheWorldBegins

Afterword

BooksbyTrumanCapoteBiographicalNote

AbouttheTrumanCapoteLiteraryTrust

ForewordbyHiltonAls

TrumanCapotestandsinthemiddleofhismotelroomwatchingtheTV.Themotelisinthemiddleofthecountry—Kansas.It’s1963.Thecrummycarpetbeneathhisfeetisstiffbutit’sthestiffnessthathelpsholdhimup—especially if he’s had too much to drink. Outside, the western windblowsandTrumanCapote,aglassofscotchinhand,watchestheTV.It’sonewayhegetstorelaxafteralongdayinGardenCityoritsenvironsashe researches and writes In Cold Blood, his nonfiction novel about amultiplemurder and its consequences.Capote began the book in 1959,butatfirstitwasn’tabook;itwasamagazinearticleforTheNewYorker.Asoriginallyconceivedbytheauthor,thepiecewasmeanttodescribeasmallcommunityanditsresponsetoakilling.ButbythetimehearrivedinGardenCity—themurdershadbeencommittedinnearbyHolcomb—Perry Smith and RichardHickock had been arrested and chargedwithslaying farm owners Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Klutter and their youngchildren, Nancy and Kenyon; as a consequence of that arrest, Capote’sprojectshiftedfocus,gotmoreinvolved.Onthisparticularlateafternoon,though,InColdBloodwasabouttwoyearsawayfrombeingfinished.It’s1963,andTrumanCapotestandsinfrontoftheTV.He’salmostfortyandhe’s been awriter for nearly as long as he’s been alive.Words, stories,tales—he’sbeenat it sincehewasachild,growingup inLouisianaandruralAlabamaandthenConnecticutandNewYork—acitizenformedbyadivided world and opposing cultures: in his native South there wassegregation, and, up north, at least talk of assimilation. In both placestherewashisintractablequeerness.Andthequeernessofbeingawriter.“IstartedwritingwhenIwaseight,”Capotesaid,once.“Outoftheblue,uninspiredbyanyexample.I’dneverknownanyonewhowrote;indeed,Iknewfewpeoplewhoread.”Writing,then,washis,justashisgayness—or, more specifically, his observant, critical, amused homosexual

sensibility—was his, too. One would serve the other. “The mostinteresting writing I did during those days,” Capote wrote of hiswunderkindyears, “was theplaineverydayobservations that I recordedin my journal. Descriptions of a neighbor….Local gossip. A kind ofreporting, a style of ‘seeing’ and ‘hearing’ that would later seriouslyinfluenceme,thoughIwasunawareofitthen,forallmy‘formal’writing,thestuffthatIpublishedandcarefullytyped,wasmoreorlessfictional.”And yet it is the reportorial voice in Capote’s early short stories, herecollectedforthefirsttime,thatremainsamongthework’smorepoignantfeatures—alongwithhiscarefuldepictionofdifference.From“MissBelleRankin,” a story aboutmisfits in a small southern town, written whenCapotewasseventeen:

IwaseightthefirsttimeIsawMissBelleRankin.ItwasahotAugustday.Thesunwaswaninginthescarlet-streakedsky,andtheheatwasrisingdryandvibrantfromtheearth.

I sat on the steps of the front porch, watching anapproachingnegress,andwonderedhowshecouldevercarrysuch a huge bundle of laundry on top of her head. Shestopped and in reply to my greeting, laughed, that dark,drawling negro laughter. It was then that Miss Belle camewalkingslowlydowntheoppositesideofthestreet….

I saw her many times afterwards, but that first vision,almost like a dream, will always remain the clearest—MissBelle,walkingsoundlesslydownthestreet,littlecloudsofreddustrisingaboutherfeetasshedisappearedintothedusk.

We will return to that Negress and Capote’s relationship to blacknessthroughouttheearlypartofhiscareerinamoment.Fornow,let’streatthisNegressasarealfigmentoftheauthor’stimeandplaceoforigin,akindofpainful literaryartifactorblack“shadow,”asToniMorrisonhasit,whotookmanyformsinnovelsbywhiteDepression-eraheavyhitterssuch as Hemingway and Faulkner and Capote’s much-admired WillaCather. When she appears in “Miss Belle Rankin,” Capote’s clearlydifferentnarratordistanceshimself fromherbycallingattention toher“drawlingnegro laughter,” andbeing easily spooked: at leastwhiteness

saves him from that. 1941’s “Lucy” is told from another young maleprotagonist’s point of view. This time, though, he’s looking to identifywithablackwomanwho’streatedasproperty.Capotewrites:“Lucywasreally the outgrowth of my mother’s love for southern cooking. I wasspendingthesummerinthesouthwhenmymotherwrotemyauntandaskedhertofindheracoloredwomanwhocouldreallycookandwouldbewillingtocometoNewYork.Aftercanvassingtheterritory,Lucywastheresult.”Lucyislively,andlovesshowbusinessasmuchasheryoungwhite companion does. As a matter of fact, she loves to imitate thosesingers—EthelWatersamongthem—whodelightsthemboth.ButisLucy—andmaybeEthel?—performingakindoffemaleNegrobehaviorthat’sdelightfulbecauseit’sfamiliar?LucyisneverherselfbecauseCapotedoesnotgivehera self.Still, there is yearning for somekindof character, asoulandbodytogoalongwithwhattheyoungwriterisreallyexamining,which also happens to be one of his great themes: outsiderness.MorethanLucy’sracethereishersouthernessinacoldclimate—aclimatethatthe narrator, clearly a lonely boy the way Capote, the only child of analcoholicmother, was a lonely boy, identifieswith. Still, Lucy’s creatorcannotmakeherrealbecausehisownfeelingsofdifferencearenotrealtohimself—he wants to get a handle on them. (In his 1979 story Capotewritesofhis1932self:“Ihadasecret,somethingthatwasbotheringme,something that was really worrying me very much, something I wasafraid to tell anybody,anybody—I couldn’t imaginewhat their reactionwouldbe,itwassuchanoddthingthatwasworryingme,thathadbeenworryingmeforalmosttwoyears.”Capotewantedtobeagirl.Andafterhe confesses it to someonehe thinksmighthelphimachieve that goal,shelaughs.)In“Lucy”andelsewhere,sentimentcaulkshissharp,originalvision;Lucybelongs toCapote’sdesire tobelong to a community, bothliterary and actual: when he wrote the piece he could not give up thewhiteworld justyet;hecouldnot forsake themajority for the isolationthat comes with being an artist. “TrafficWest” was a step in the rightdirectionorapreviewofhismaturestyle.Composedofaseriesofshortscenes, the piece is a kind ofmystery story about faith and the law. Itbegins:

Four chairs and a table. On the table, paper—in the chairs,men. Windows above the street. On the street, people—

againstthewindow,rain.Thiswas,perhaps,anabstraction,apaintedpictureonly,butthepeople,innocent,unsuspecting,movedbelow,andthetherainfellwetonthewindow.Forthemen stirred not, the legal, precise document, on the tablemovednot.

Capote’scinematiceye—themoviesinfluencedhimasmuchasbooksand conversation did—was sharpened as he produced these apprenticeworks,andtheirvalue,essentially,iswatchingwherepieceslike“TrafficWest” led him, technically speaking. Certainly that story was theapprenticeworkheneeded towrite toget to“Miriam,”anamazing taleabout a disenfranchised olderwoman living in an alienatingNewYorkcoveredinsnow.(Capotepublished“Miriam”whenhewasjusttwenty.)And, of course, stories like “Miriam” led to other cinema-inspirednarratives like 1950’s “ADiamondGuitar,”which, in turn,presages thethemesCapoteexploredsobrilliantly inInColdBlood, and inhis 1979piece“ThenItAllCameDown,”aboutCharlesManson’sassociateBobbyBeausoleil. On and on. By writing and working through, Capote, thespiritual waif as a child with no real fixed address, found his focus,or perhaps,mission: to articulate all that which his circumstances andsociety had hitherto not described, especially transience, and thosemoments of heterosexual love or closeted, silent homoeroticism, thatsealedpeopleoff,onefromtheother.Intheintermittenlytouching“IfIForgetYou,”awomanwaitsforlove,orlove’sillusions,despitetherealityof a situation. The piece is subjective; thwarted love always is. Capotefurtherexploresmissedchancesandforsakenlovefromawoman’spointofviewin“TheFamiliarStranger.”InitanelderlywhitewomannamedNannie dreams she has a male visitor who is at once solicitous andmenacing in theway that sex can sometimes feel. Like the first-personnarrator inKatherineAnnePorter’smasterly 1930 story “TheJiltingofGrannyWeatherall,” Nannie’s hardness—her voice of complaint—is theresult of having been rejected, fooled by love, and the vulnerability itrequires. Nannie’s resulting skepticism spills out into the world—herworld,being,insum,herblackretainer,Beulah.

Beulahisalwaysthere—supportive,sympathetic—andyetshehasnoface,nobody:she isa feeling,notaperson.HereagainCapotefailshistalentwhenitcomestorace;Beulahisnotacreationbasedontruthbut

thefictionofrace,whatablackwomanis,orstandsfor.Urgentlywelookpast Beulah to other Capote works for his brilliant sense of reality infiction, that which gives thework its peculiar resonance.When Capotebeganpublishinghisnonfictionwritinginthemid-tolate1940s,fictionwriters rarely if ever crossed over into journalism—itwas considered alesserform,despiteitsimportancetoearlymastersoftheEnglishnovel,suchasDanielDeFoeandCharlesDickens,bothofwhomhadstartedoffasreporters.(DeFoe’svexingandprofoundRobinsonCrusoewaspartlyinspiredbyanexplorer’s journal andDickens’s 1853masterpieceBleakHouse, alternates subjective first-person narration with third-personjournalistic-like reports aboutEnglish lawand society.) In short, itwasrare for amodern writer of fiction to give up its relative freedoms forjournalism’s strictures, but I think Capote always loved the tensioninherentincheatingthetruth.Healwayswantedtoelevaterealityabovetheflatnessoffacts.(Inhisfirstnovel,1948’sOtherVoices,OtherRooms,the book’s protagonist, JoelHarrison Knox, recognizes that impulse inhimself.WhentheblackservantMissouricatchesJoel inalie,shesays,“You is a gret big story.” Capote then goes on to write: “Somehow,spinning the tale,Joelhadbelievedeveryword.”)Later, in1972’s“Self-Portrait,”wehavethis:

Q:Areyouatruthfulperson?A: As a writer—yes, I think so. Privately—well, that is a matter ofopinion;someofmyfriendsthinkthatwhenrelatinganeventorpieceofnews,Iaminclinedtoalterandoverelaborate.Myself, I justcall itmakingsomething“comealive.”Inotherwords,aformofart.Artandtrutharenotnecessarilycompatiblebedfellows.

In his wonderful early nonfiction books—1950’s Local Color and1956’sstrangeandhilariousTheMusesAreHeard,whichcoversatroupeof black actors in communist-eraMoscow performingPorgy andBess,and the Russians’ sometimes-racist reaction to the performers—thewriter used factual events as a jumping-off point to aid in hismusingsaboutoutsiders.Mostofhissubsequentnonfictionworkwouldbeaboutoutsiders,too—allthosedriftersandprolestryingtomakeitinunfamiliarworlds.In“SwampTerror”and“MillStore,”both fromtheearly1940s,

thebackwoodsworldsCapotedrawsarepoliticalinshape.Eachtaletakesplaceinworldslimitedbymachismoandpovertyandtheconfusionandshamethateachcanbringabout.Thesepiecesarethe“shadow”ofOtherVoices, Other Rooms, which can best be read as a report from theemotionalandracialterrainthathelpedformhim.(Capotesaidthatthebookendedthefirstphaseofhislifeasawriter.Itisalsoalandmarkin“out” literature.Essentiallythenovelaskswhat’sdifferent.InonesceneKnoxlistensasayounggirlgoesonandonaboutherbutchsister’sdesireto be a farmer. “What’s wrong with that?” Joel asks. Indeed, what iswrongwiththat?Oranyofit?)InOtherVoices,OtherRooms,aworkofhighsoutherngothicsymbolismanddrama,wemeetMissouri,orZoo,asshe is sometimes called. Unlike her literary predecessors she is notcontent to live in theshadowswhileemptyingbedpansand listening toquarrelsomewhitefolkinCapote’shouseofthesick.ButZoocan’tbreakfree;she’sstoppedinfreedom’stracksbythemachismo,ignorance,andbrutalitytheauthorvividlydescribesin“SwampTerror”and“MillStore”:AfterZoo runsoff, she’s forced to return toher former life.There,Joelasksher ifshemanagedtomake itupnorthandseesnow.Zooshouts:“There ain’t none.Hit’s all a lotta foolery, snowand such: that sin! It’severywhere!…Is a nigger sun, anmy soul, it’s black.” She’s been rapedand burned and her attackerswerewhite. Despite the fact that Capotesaidhewasnotapoliticalperson(“I’venevervoted.Though,ifinvited,Isuppose I might join almost anyone’s protest parade: Antiwar, FreeAngela,GayLiberation,Ladie’sLib,etc.”),politicswasalwayspartofhislifebecausehissoulwasqueerandhehadtosurvive,whichmeansbeingaware of how to use your difference, and why. As an artist, TrumanCapote treated truth as ametaphorhe couldhidebehind, thebetter toexposehimselfinaworldnotexactlycongenialtoasouthern-bornqueenwithahighvoicewhooncesaidtoadisapprovingtruckdriver:“Whatareyou looking at? Iwouldn’t kiss you for a dollar.” So doing, he gave hisreaders, queer and not queer, license to imagine his real self in a realsituation—inKansas,researchingInColdBlood—whilewatchingtheTVbecauseit’sinterestingtothinkabouthimmaybetakinginnewsreportsfromthetime,likethatstoryaboutthosefourblackgirlsinAlabama,oneofhishomestates,blowntobitsinachurchbyracismandmaleficence,andmaybewonderinghow,astheauthorof1958’sBreakfastatTiffany’s,he could have written of Holly Golightly, the book’s star, asking for a

cigaretteandthensaying:“Idon’tmeanyou,O.J.You’resuchaslob.Youalwaysnigger-lip.”Capote’sbest fiction is true tohisqueernessand it’sweakestwhenhefailstothrowoffthemoresoftheonlygaymalemodelheprobablyknewwhenhewasgrowingupinLouisianaandAlabama:amelancholy, arch, mired-in-nostalgia-and-honeysuckle queen namedCousin Randolph, who “understands” Zoo because her reality doesn’tinterferewithhisnarcissism—atleasthewasn’tthat.Bywritinginandofhis times, Capote transcended both by becoming an artist, one whopresagedourtimebydelineatingthetruthtobehadinfabrication.

HILTONALSisastaffwriterforTheNewYorker.HisworkalsoappearsinThe New York Review of Books. He is the author ofTheWomen andWhiteGirls.HelivesinNewYork.

PartingoftheWay

Twilight had come; the lights from the distant townwere beginning toflash on; up the hot and dusty road leading from the town came twofigures,one,alargeandpowerfulman,theother,younganddelicate.

Jake’s flaming red hair framed his head, his eyebrows looked likehorns,hismusclesbulgedandwerethreatening;hisoverallswerefadedandragged,andhistoesstuckoutthroughpiecesofshoes.Heturnedtotheyoungboywalkingbesidehimandsaid,“Guessthisisjustabouttimeto make camp for tonight. Here, kid, take this bundle and lay it overthere;thengitsomewood—andmakeitsnappytoo.Iwanttomakethevittelsbeforeit’salldark.Wecan’thaveanybodyseein’us.Goonthere,hurryup.”

Timobeyed the orders and set about gathering thewood.His thinshouldersdroopedfromthestrain,andhisgauntfeaturesstoodoutwithprotruding bones. His eyes were weak but sympathetic; his rose-budmouthpuckeredslightlyashewentabouthislabor.

NeatlyhepiledthewoodwhileJakecutstripsofbaconandputthemina grease-coatedpan.Then,when thewoodwas ready tobe fired,hesearchedthroughhisoverallsforamatch.

“Damnit,wheredidIputthosematches?Wherearethey,youain’tgot’em,haveyou,kid?Nuts,Ididn’tthinkso;ah,heretheyare.”Hedrewapaperofmatches fromapocket, lit one, andprotected the tiny flamewithhisroughhands.

Timputthepanwiththebaconoverthesmallfirethatwasrapidlycatching. The bacon remained still for a minute or so and then a tinycrackling sound started, and the bacon was frying. A very rancid odorcamefromthemeat.Tim’ssickfaceturnedsickerfromthefumes.

“Gee,Jake,Idon’tknowwhetherIcaneatanyofthisjunkornot.Itdoesn’tlookrighttome.Ithinkit’srancid.”

“You’ll eat it or nothin’. If youweren’t so stingywith that piece ofchangeyougot,wecouldagotussomethin’decenttoeat.Why,kid,yougotawholetenbucks.Itdoesn’ttakethatmuchtogethomeon.”

“Yes,itdoes,I’vegotitallfiguredout.Thetrainfarewillcostmefivebucks,andIwanttogetanewsuitforaboutthreebucks,thenIwantto

gitMasomethin’prettyforaboutadollarorso;andIfiguremyfoodwillcostabuck.Iwanttogitlookin’decent.Maan’themdon’tknowIbeenbummin’ around the country for the last two years; they think I’m atravelingsalesman—that’swhatIwrotethem;theythinkI’mjustcominghomenowtostayawhileaforeIstartoutonalittletripsomewhere.”

“I ought to take that money off you—I’mmighty hungry—I mighttakethatpieceofchange.”

Timstoodup,defiant.Hisweak, frailbodywasa jokecomparedtothebulgingmusclesofJake.Jakelookedathimandlaughed.Heleanedbackagainstatreeandroared.

“Ain’t you apretty somethin’? I’d jes’ twist thatmessof bones youcall yourself. Jes’ break every bone in your body, only you been prettygoodforme—stealin’stuffformean’thelikesofthat—soI’llletyoukeepyourpinmoney.”Helaughedagain.Timlookedathimsuspiciouslyandsatbackdownonarock.

Jake took two tinplates froma sack,put three stripsof the rancidbacononhisplateandoneonTim’s.Timlookedathim.

“Whereismyotherpiece?Therewerefourstrips.You’resupposedtogettwoan’metwo.Whereismyotherpiece?”hedemanded.

Jakelookedathim.“Ithoughtyousaidthatyoudidn’twantanyofthis rancidmeat.” Putting his hands on his hips he said the last eightwordsinahigh,sarcastic,femininevoice.

Timremembered,hehadsaidthat,buthewashungry,hungryandcold.

“I don’t care. I want my other piece. I’m hungry. I could eat justaboutanything.Comeon,Jake,gimmemyotherpiece.”

Jakelaughedandstuckallthethreepiecesinhismouth.Not another word was spoken. Tim went sulkily over in a corner,

and, reaching out from where he was sitting, he gathered pine twigs,neatlylayingthemalongtheground.Finally,whenthisjobwasfinished,hecouldstandthestrainedsilencenolonger.

“Sorry,Jake,youknowhowitis.I’mexcitedaboutgettinghomeandeverything.I’mreallyveryhungrytoo,but,gosh,Iguessallthereistodoistotightenupmybelt.”

“Thehellitis.Youcouldtakesomeofthatjackyougotandgogetus

a decent meal. I know what you’re thinkin’. Why don’t we steal somefood?Buthell,youdon’tcatchmestealin’anythinginthisburg.Iheardfrombuddies that thisplace,”hepointeda finger towardthe lights thatindicatedatown,“isoneofthetoughestlittleburgsthissideofnowhere.Theywatchbumslikeeagles.”

“Iguessyou’reright,butyouunderstand,Ijustain’tgoin’totakeanychancesonlosin’noneofthisdough.It’sgottolastme,’causeit’sallIgotan’allI’mliabletogetinthenextfewyears.Iwouldn’tdisappointMaforanythingintheworld.”

Morning came gloriously, the large orange disc known as the suncameuplikeamessengerfromheavenoverthedistanthorizon.Timhadawakenedjustintimetoseethesunrise.

HeshookJake,whojumpedupdemanding:“Whatdoyouwant?Oh!it’stimetogetup.Hell,howIhatetogetup.”Thenheletoutamightyyawnandstretchedhispowerfularmsasfarastheywouldgo.

“This isshoregoin’ tobeonehotday,Jake. IshoreamgladIain’tgoin’ to have to walk. That is, only as far back into that town as therailroadstationis.”

“Yeh,kid.Thinkofme,Iain’tgotanyplacetogo,butI’mgoin’there,justwalkin’inthehotsun.Iwishitwouldalwaysbelikeearlyspring,nottoohot,nottoocold.Isweattodeathinsummerandfreezeinwinter.It’saheckofaclimate.IthinkI’dliketogotoFloridainthewinter,butthereain’tnogoodpickinsthereanymore.”Hewalkedoverandstartedtotakeoutthefryingutensilsagain.Hereachedintothepackandbroughtoutabucket.

“Here,kid,gouptheretothatfarmhouseaboutaquarterofamileuptheroadandgitsomewater.”

Timtookthebucketandstarteduptheroad.“Hey,kid,ain’tyougoin’totakeyourjacket?Ain’tyouafraidI’llsteal

yourdough?”“Nope.IguessIcantrustyou.”Butdowndeepinhisheartheknew

thathecouldn’t.Theonlyreasonhehadn’t turnedbackwasbecausehedidn’twantJaketoknowthathedidn’ttrusthim.ThechanceswerethatJakeknewitanyway.

Up the road he trudged. It was not paved, but even in the early

morningtheduststillstuck.Thewhitehousewasjustalittlebitfarther.Ashereachedthegate,hesawtheownercomingoutofthecowshedwithapailinhishand.

“Hey,Mister,canIpleasehavethisbucketfilledwithsomewater?”“I guess so.There’s thepump.”Hepointed adirty finger toward a

pumpintheyard.Timwentin.Hegraspedthepump-handleandpusheditupanddown.Suddenlythewatercamespillingoutinacoldstream.Hereacheddownandstuckhismouthtothespoutandletcoldliquidruninand over his mouth. After filling the bucket he started back down theroad.

Hebrokehiswaythroughthebrushandcamebackintotheclearing.Jakewasbendingoverthebag.

“Damn, they jes’ ain’t nothin’ left to eat. I thought, at least, therewereacoupleofslicesofthatbaconleft.”

“Aw,that’sallright.WhenIgettotownIcangetmeawholemeal—an’maybeI’llbuyyouacupofcoffee—an’abun.”

“Gee,butyou’regenerous.”Jakelookedathimdisgustedly.Timpickeduphisjacketandreachedinthepocket.Hebroughtouta

wornleatherwalletandunfastenedthecatch.“I’mabout toproduce thedoughthat’sgoin’ to takemehome.”He

repeatedthewordsseveraltimes,caressingiteachtime.He reached into the wallet. He brought out his hand—empty. An

expressionofhorrorandunbeliefovercamehim.Wildlyhetorethewalletapart,thendashedaboutlookingthroughthepineneedles.Furiouslyheranaroundlikeatrappedanimal—thenhesawJake.Hissmallthinframeshookwithfury.Wildlyheturnedonhim.

“Givemebackmymoney,youthief,liar,youstoleitfromme.I’llkillyouifyoudon’tgiveitback.Giveitback!I’llkillyou!Youpromisedyouwouldn’ttakeit.Thief,liar,cheat!Giveittome,orI’llkillyou.”

Jakelookedathimastoundedandsaid,“Why,Tim,kid,Iain’tgotit.Maybeyou lost it,maybe it’s still in thosepineneedles.Comeon,we’llfindit.”

“No,it’snotthere.I’velooked.Youstoleit.Therejes’ain’tanybodyelsewhocouldof.Youdidit.Wheredidyouputit?Giveitback,yougotit….giveitback!”

“IswearIhaven’tgotit.IswearitbyalltheprinciplesIgot.”“Youain’t gotnoprinciples. Jake, lookme in theeyesandsayyou

hopeyougetkilledifyouain’tgotmymoney.”Jake turnedaround.His redhairseemedevenredder in thebright

morning light,hiseyebrowsmore like thorns.Hisunshavenchin juttedout, and his yellow teeth showed at the far end of his upturned andtwistedmouth.

“I swear that I ain’t got your tenbucks. If I ain’t tellin’ the truth, IhopesthatthenexttimeIridestherailIgetskilled.”

“Okay, Jake, I believe you. Only where could my money be? YouknowIain’tgotitonme.Ifyouain’tgotit,whereisit?”

“You ain’t searched the camp yet. Look all ’round. Itmust be heresomewheres.Comeon,I’llhelpyoulook.Itcouldn’ofwalkedoff.”

Timrannervouslyabout,repeating:“What ifIdon’t findit?Ican’tgohome,Ican’tgohomelookin’likethis.”

Jakewentaboutthesearchonlyhalfheartedly,hisbigbodybendingandlookinginthepineneedles,inthesack.Timtookoffhisclothesandstood naked in the middle of the camp, tearing out the seams in hisoverallssearchingforhismoney.

Neartears,hesatdownonalog.“Wemightaswellgiveitup.Itain’there.Itain’tnowheres.Ican’tgohome,andIwanttogohome.Oh!whatwillMasay?Please,Jake,haveyougotit?”

Damn,you,forthelasttimeNO!ThenexttimeyouaskmethatI’magoin’toknockhellouto’you.”

“Okay,Jake,IguessI’lljusthavetobumaroundwithyousomemore—’tillIcangetmeenoughmoneyagaintogohomeon—IcanwriteMaacardan’saythattheysentmeoffonatripalready,an’Icancomeseeherlater.”

“I shore ain’t goin’ tohave youbummin’ ’roundwithme anymore.I’mtiredofkidslikeyou.You’llhavetogoyourownwayan’findy’rownpickins.”

Jake mused to himself. “I want the kid to come with me, but Ishouldn’.MaybeifIleavehimalone,he’llgetwisean’gohomean’makesomethin’ of himself. That’s what he ought to do, go home an’ tell thetruth.”

Theybothsatdownonalog.FinallyJakesaid,“Kid,ifyouaregoin’youbettergetstarted.Comeon,getup,it’saboutsevenalready,an’gottogetstarted.”

Tim picked up his knapsack, and they walked out to the roadtogether.Jake’sbigpowerfulfigurelookedfatherlybesideTim.Itseemedas if hemight be protecting a small child. They reached the road andturnedtofaceeachothertosaygoodbye.

Jake looked into Tim’s clear,watery blue eyes. “Well, so long, kid,let’sshakehandsan’partfriends.”

Timextendedhis tinyhand. Jakewrappedhis pawoverTim’s.Hegavehimaheartyshake—thekidallowedhishand tobemoved limply.Jakeletgo—thekidfeltasomethinginhishand.Heopenedit,andtherelaythetendollarbill.Jakewashurryingaway,andTimstartedafterhim.Perhaps itwas just the bright sunlight reflecting onhis eyes—and thenagain—perhapsitreallywastears.

MillStore

ThewomangazedoutofthebackwindowoftheMillStore,herattentionraptupon the childrenplayinghappily in thebrightwaterof the creek.Theskywascompletelycloudless,andthesouthernsunwashotontheearth. The woman wiped the sweat off her forehead with a redhandkerchief. The water, rushing rapidly over the bright creek bottompebbles,lookedcoldandinviting.Ifthosepicnickersweren’tdowntherenow,shethought,IswearI’dgoandsitinthatwaterandcoolmyselfoff.Whew—!

AlmosteverySaturdaypeoplewouldcomefromthetownonpicnicpartiesandspendtheafternoonfeastingonthewhitepebbledshoresofMill Creek, while their childrenwaded in the semi-shallowwater. Thisafternoon,aSaturdaylateinAugust,therewasaSundayschoolpicnicinprogress.Threeelderlywomen,Sundayschoolteachers,rushedabouttheshadyspot,anxiouslytendingtheiryoungcharges.

Thewoman,watchingfromtheMillStore,turnedhergazebackintothe comparatively dark interior of the store and searched around for apackofcigarettes.Shewasabigwoman,darkandsunburned.Herblackhairwasthickbutcutshort.Shewasdressedinacheapcalicodress.Asshe lighted her cigarette she frowned over the smoke. She twisted hermouthandgrimaced.Thatwastheonlytroublewiththisdamnsmoking;ithurt theulcers inhermouth.She inhaled sharply, the suctioneasingthestingingsoresforthemoment.

Itmustbe thewater, she thought. I ain’tused todrinkin’ thiswellwater.Shehadonlycometothetownthreeweeksago,lookingforajob.Mr.Bensonhadgivenherthejob,achancetoworkintheMillStore.Shedidn’t like ithere. Itwas fivemiles to the town, and shewasn’t exactlyprone to walking. It was too quiet, and at night, when she heard thecricketschirpingand thebull frogscroaking their lonelycry, shewouldgetthe“jitters.”

She glanced at the cheap alarm clock. It was three-thirty, theloneliest, most interminable hour of the day for her. The store was astuffyplace,smellingofkeroseneandfreshcornmealandstalecandies.Sheleanedbackoutthewindow.TheAugustmid-afternoonsunhunghotinthesky.

The storewasona sharp red claybank that rose straight from thecreek.Atonesidetherewasabigcrumblingmillthatnoonehadusedforsix or seven years. A rickety, graywooddamheld out the pondwatersfromthecreekwhichflowedlikeanopalescentoliveribbonthroughthewoods.Thepicnickershadtopayadollaratthestorefortheuseofthegroundsandforfishinginthepondabovethedam.Onedayshehadgonefishingatthepondbutallshehadcaughtwereacoupleofskinny,bonycat-fishandtwomoccasins.Howshehadscreamedwhenshepulledthesnakes up, twisting, flashing their slimy bodies in the sun, theirpoisonous,cottonmouthssunkintoherhook.Afterthesecondone,shehaddroppedherpoleandline,rushedbacktothestoreandspenttherestofthehumiddayconsolingherselfwithmoviemagazinesandabottleofbourbon.

Shethoughtaboutitasshelookeddownatthechildrensplashinginthewater. She laughed a little, but just the same shewas afraid of theslimythings.

Suddenlyashyyoungvoicebehindhersaid,“Miss—?”Shewas startled; she jumped aroundwith a fierce look inher eye.

“Yadon’thavetosneak—oh,whatd’youwant,Kid?”A little girlpointed toanold fashionedglass showcase, filledwith

cheap candies—jellybeans, gumdrops,peppermint sticks, jaw-breakersscatteredaboutthecase.Asthechildpointedtoeachdesiredarticlethewomanreachedinandthrewitinasmall,brownpaperbag.Thewomanwatchedthechildintenselyasshechoseherpurchases.Sheremindedherofsomeone.Itwasthechild’seyes.Theywerebright,likebubblesofblueglass.Suchapale,skyblue.Thelittlegirl’shairdippedinwavesalmostdowntohershoulders.Itwasfine,honey-coloredhair.Herlegsandfaceandarmsweredarkbrown,almosttoodark.Thewomanknewthechildmusthavebeenout inthesunagreatdeal.Shecouldn’thelpstaringather.

The little girl looked up from her purchasing and asked shyly, “Issomethingwrongwithme?”Shelookedaroundherdresstoseeifitwastorn.

Thewomanwasembarrassed.Shelookeddownquicklyandbegantorolluptheendofthebag.“Why,no—no—notatall.”

“Oh,I thought therewasbecauseyouwas lookingatmeso funny.”

Thechildseemedreassured.Thewoman leaned over the counter as she handed the bag to the

little girl and touched her hair. She just had to; it seemed so rich, likesweetyellowbutter.

“What’syourname,Kid?”sheasked.Thechildlookedfrightened.“Elaine,”shesaid.Shegrabbedthebag,

laidsomehotcoinsonthecounterandhurriedquicklyoutofthestore.“Bye,Elaine,”thewomancalled,butthelittlegirlwasalreadyoutof

thestoreandhurryingacrossthebridgetorejoinherplaymates.That’sahelluvathing,shethought.Thatkid’seyesarejust likehis.

Thosedamnedeyes.She satdown ina chair in the cornerof the store,took one last drag on the cigarette and crushed it lifeless on the barefloor. She pressed her head into her lap and fell into a hot semi-sleep.God, she thought as she dozed, those eyes and, she moaned, thesedamnedulcers.

She was awakened by four young boys shaking her shoulders andjumping around the store in a frenzy of excitement. “Wake up,” theyyelled.“Wakeup.”

Shelookedatthem,bleary-eyedforamoment.Hercheekswerehotallover.Theulcersburnedinhermouth.Shesweptthemcarelesslywithhertongue.

“What’samatter?”sheasked,“What’samatter?”“Haveyougotatelephoneoracar,Lady,please?”askedoneofthe

excitedboys.“No, no I haven’t,” she said, now fully awake. “What’s thematter?

What’shappened?Damhasn’tburst,hasit?”Theboys jumpedaround.Theywere tooexcited tostandstill; they

just jumped around moaning, “Oh, what are we gonna do! She’ll die,she’lldie!”

Thewomanwas gettingmad. “What the hell’s happened, anyway?Tellme,butquick!”

“Akid’sbeensnakebit,”sobbedasmall,chubbyboy.“ForGod’ssake,where?”“Downinthecreek,”hepointedtowardthewindow.

The woman rushed out the store. Across the bridge she flew anddownthepebbledbeach.Acrowdofpeopleweregatheredattheendofthe beach. One of the Sunday school teachers was flying around thecrowd,yellingherheadoff.Someofthechildrenstoodtooneside,wall-eyedwithhorrorandamazementat this thing thathadbrokenuptheirparty.

Thewomanbroke through thecrowdandsawthechild that layonthe sand. It was the girl with the bubble eyes, like bright blue glass.“Elaine,” cried thewoman.Everyone turned their attention on thenewarrival.Shekneltdownbesidethechildandlookedatthewound.Alreadyitwasswellingandturningcolor.Thechildshiveredandweptandhitherheadwithherhand.

“Haven’tyougotacar?”thewomanaskedoneoftheschoolteachers.“Howdidyougethere?”

“Wehikedover,”theotherwomananswered,fearandbewildermentinhereyes.

Thewomanrangherhandsinrage.“Lookhere,”shesaid,“thiskid’sserious;she’sliabletodie.”

Theyallonlystaredather.Whatcouldtheydo?Theywerehelpless,justthreesillywomenandalotofchildren.

“Allright,allright,”thewomancried.“You,yourunuptotheplaceand get a coupla chickens. You women get somebody to start runningback to town toget adoctor.Hurry,hurry.Wehaven’t got aminute tolose.”

“Butwhatcanwedonowforthechild?”oneofthewomenasked.“I’llshowyou,”thewomansaid.She knelt downbeside the little girl and looked at thewound.The

place was swollen big now.Without amoment’s hesitation the womanbent over and sunk her mouth against the wound. She sucked andsucked,lettingupeveryfewsecondsandspittingoutamouthfuloffluid.Therewereonlyafewchildrenleftandoneoftheteachers.Theystaredwith horrified fascination and admiration. The child’s face turned thecolorof chalkandshe fainted.Thewomanspatoutmouthfulsof salivamixedwiththepoison.Finallyshegotupandrantothestream.Rinsinghermouthoutwiththewater,shegurgledfuriously.

The children with the chickens arrived. Three big fat hens. Thewomangrabbedoneofthembythelegs,andwiththeaidofajackkniferippeditopen,thehotbloodrunningovereverything.“Theblooddrawswhatpoisonthereisleft,out,”sheexplained.

When that chickenhad turned green she ripped open another andplaceditagainstthechild’swound.

“Comeonnow,” she said. “Getholdofherandcarryherup to thestore.We’llwaitthereuntilthedoctorcomes.

The children ran eagerly forward and with their combined efforts,managed tocarryher comfortably.Theywerecrossing thebridgewhentheschoolteachersaid,“Really,Idon’tknowhowwecaneverthankyou.Itwasso,itwas—”

The woman pushed her aside and hurried on up the bridge. Theulcerswereburning likemadfromthepoison,andshe feltsickalloverwhenshethoughtofwhatshehaddone.

Hilda

“Hilda—HildaWeber,willyoupleasecomehereamoment?”Quickly she went to the front of the room and stood next toMiss

Armstrong’sdesk.“Hilda,”MissArmstrongsaidquietly,“Mr.Yorkwouldliketoseeyou

afterdismissal.”Hildastaredquestioningly foramoment, thensheshookherhead,

her long black hair swinging from side to side and partly covering herpleasantface.

“Areyousureit’sme,MissArmstrong?Ihaven’tdoneanything.”Hervoicewasfrightenedbutverymatureforasixteen-year-oldgirl.

MissArmstrongseemedannoyed.“Icanonlytellyouwhatthisnotesays.”Shehandedthetallgirlaslipofwhitepaper.

HildaWeber—office—3:30.Mr.York,Principal.

Hildawentslowlybacktoherdesk.Thesunshonebrightlythroughthewindowandsheblinkedhereyes.Whywasshebeingsummonedtothe office? It was the first time she had ever been called to see theprincipal, and shehadbeengoing toMountHopeHigh for almost twoyears.

II

Somewhere in the back of hermind therewas a vague fear. She had afeelingthatsheknewwhatitwastheprincipalwantedtoseeherfor—butno, that couldn’t be it—no one knew, no one even suspected. She wasHilda Weber—hard working, studious, shy, and unassuming. No oneknew.Howcouldthey?

She felta littlecomforted. Itmustbesomethingelse thatMr.Yorkwantedtoseeherabout.PerhapshewantedhertobeonthecommitteefortheProm.ShesmiledfeeblyandpickedupherbiggreenLatinbook.

When the dismissal bell rang, Hilda went directly to Mr. York’soffice. She presented the note to the complacent secretary in the outeroffice.When shewas told to go in, she thought her legswere going tocrumplebeneathher.Sheshookwithnervousnessandexcitement.

HildahadseenMr.Yorkintheschoolcorridorsandhadheardhimspeakatschoolassembliesbutshecouldneverrememberhavingactuallyspokenwithhimpersonally.Hewasa tallmanwitha thin face toppedwithagreatsprayofredhair.Hiseyesweresea-paleand,atthemoment,extremelypleasant.

Hilda came into the small,modestly furnishedofficewith troubledeyesandapaleface.

III

“You are Hilda Weber?” The words were more a statement than aquestion.Mr.York’svoicewasgraveandpleasant.

“Yes,Sir, I am.”Hildawas surprisedatherowncalmvoice. Insideshewascoldandjitteryandherhandsclaspedherbookssotightlythatshe could feel the warm sweat. There was something terrible andfrighteningaboutseeingaprincipal,buthisfriendlyeyesdisarmedher.

“Iseebyyourrecordhere,”hepickedupabigyellowcard,“thatyouareanhonorstudent,thatyoucameherefromaboardingschoolinOhio,andthatyouareatpresentaJuniorhereatMountHopeHighSchool.Isthatcorrect?”heasked.

Shenoddedherheadandwatchedhimintently.“Tellme,Hilda,whatareyoumostinterestedin?”“Inwhatway,Sir?”Shemustbeonherguard.“Why,pertainingtoafuturecareerinlife.”Hehadpickedupagold

keychainfromhisdeskandwastwirlingitaround.“WellIdon’tknow,Sir.IthoughtIwouldliketobeanactress.I’ve

alwayshadagreat interest indramatics.”She smiled, anddroppedhergazefromhisthinfacetothewhirlingblurofchain.

“Isee,”hesaid.“IaskthisonlybecauseIwould liketounderstand

you. It’s quite important that I understand you.” He turned his chairaround and sat up straight to the desk. “Yes, quite important.” Shenoticedthathisairofinformalityhaddropped.

IV

She fidgeted with her books nervously. He hadn’t said anything yet toaccuseher,butsheknewthather facewas flushed;she feltveryhotallover.Suddenlytheclosenessoftheroomwasunbearable.

He laiddown the chain.Hewas fixing to speak, sheknewbecausesheheardhissharpintakeofbreath,butshedidn’tdarelookupathimbecausesheknewwhathewasgoingtosay.

“Hilda, I supposeyouknow therehasbeenagreatdealof thievinggoingonhereinthegirls’lockers.”Hepausedamoment.“It’sbeengoingonforsometimenow—butwehaven’tbeenabletolayourhandsonthegirlwhowouldstealfromherclassmates.”Hewassternanddeliberate.“Thereisnoplaceinthishighschoolforathief!”hesaidearnestly.

Hilda stared down at her books. She could feel her chin tremblingandshebitherlips.Mr.Yorkhalfrosefromhisseatandthensatdownagain.Theysatinatense,strainedsilence.Finallyhereachedinhisdeskdrawerandpulledoutasmallblueboxandemptiedthecontentsonthedesk.Twogoldrings,acharmbracelet,andsomecoins.

“Doyourecognizethese?”heasked.She stared at them for a long time. Fully forty-five seconds. They

blurredinfrontofhereyes.“ButIdidn’tstealthosethings,Mr.York,ifthat’swhatyoumean!”

V

Hesighed.“Theywerefoundinyourlocker,andbesides—we’vehadoureyeonyouforsometime!”

“ButIdidn’t—”shestoppedshort,itwashopeless.

FinallyMr. York said, “Butwhat I can’t understand iswhy a childlikeyouwouldwanttodosuchathing.You’rebright,andasfarasIcanfindout,youcomefromafinefamily.Frankly,Iamcompletelybaffled.”

She still sat silent, fumbling with her books, and feeling as if thewallswerecloseandtight,asifsomethingweretryingtosmotherher.

“Well,” he continued, “if you aren’t going to offer any explanation,I’mafraidthereislittleIcandoforyou.Don’tyourealizetheseriousnessofthisoffense?”

“It’snotthat,”sherasped.“It’snotthatIdon’twanttotellyouwhyIstole those things—it’s just that Idon’tknowhow to tell you,because Idon’t know myself.” Her slim shoulders shook, she was tremblingviolently.

Helookedatherface—howhardtopunishfrailtyinachild.Hewasvisibly moved, he knew. He walked to the window and adjusted theshade.

The girl got up. She was overcome with a nauseous hate for thisofficeandthosebrightshiningtrinketsonthedesk.ShecouldhearMr.York’svoice,itseemedfaranddistant.

VI

“Thisisaveryseriousmatter,I’mafraidIwillhavetoseeyourparents.”Hereyesleapedwithfear.“Youaren’tgoingtohavetotellmy—?”“Ofcourse,”Mr.Yorkanswered.Suddenlyshedidn’tcareanymoreaboutanythingexceptgettingout

of this little white office with its ugly furnishings and its red-headedoccupantandtheringsandbraceletandmoney.Shehatedthem!

“Youmaygonow.”“Yes,Sir.”When she left theoffice,hewasoccupiedwithputting the trinkets

backinthelittlebluebox.ShewalkedslowlythroughtheouterofficeanddownthelongemptycorridorandoutintothebrightsunlightoftheAprilafternoon.

Then, suddenly, she began to run, and she ran faster and faster.Downthehighschoolstreet,andintothetownanddownthelongmainstreet.Shedidn’tcareifpeopledidstareather;allshewantedwastogetasfarawayasshecould.Sheranawaytotheothersideoftownandintothepark.Therewereonlya fewwomentherewiththeirbabycarriages.Shecollapsedontooneoftheemptybenchesandhuggedherachingside.Afterawhile, it stoppedhurting.SheopenedherbiggreenLatinbook,and behind its protective covers, began to cry softly, unconsciouslyfingeringthegoldkeychaininherlap.

MissBelleRankin

IwaseightthefirsttimeIsawMissBelleRankin.ItwasahotAugustday.Thesunwaswaninginthescarlet-streakedsky,andtheheatwasrisingdryandvibrantfromtheearth.

I sat on the steps of the front porch, watching an approachingnegress,andwonderedhowshecouldevercarrysuchahugebundleoflaundryonthetopofherhead.Shestoppedandinreplytomygreeting,laughed,thatdark,drawlingnegrolaughter.ItwasthenMissBellecamewalking slowlydown theopposite sideof the street.Thewasherwomansawher,andasifsuddenlyfrightenedstoppedinthemiddleofasentenceandmovedhurriedlyontoherdestination.

Istaredlongandhardatthispassingstrangerwhocouldcausesuchoddbehavior.Shewassmallandclothedallinblack,dustyandstreaked—she lookedunbelievablyoldandwrinkled.Thingraywispsofhair layacross her forehead, wet with perspiration. She walked with her headdownandstaredattheunpavedsidewalk,almostas ifshewerelookingfor something she had lost. An old black and tan hound followed her,movingaimlesslyinthetracesofhismistress.

Isawhermanytimesafterwards,butthatfirstvision,almostlikeadream,will always remain theclearest—MissBelle,walkingsoundlesslydown the street, little clouds of red dust rising about her feet as shedisappearedintothedusk.

A few years later I was sitting in Mr. Joab’s corner drugstore,swiggingononeofMr.Joab’sspecialmilkshakes.Iwasdownatoneendof the counter, and up at the other sat two of the town’s well-knowndrugstorecowboysandastranger.

This stranger was much more respectable in appearance than thepeoplewhousuallycameintoMr.Joab’s.Butitwaswhathewassayinginaslow,huskyvoice,thatcaughtmyattention.

“Do youboys knowanybody aroundherewith somenice Japonicatreesforsale?I’mcollectingsomeforanEasternwomanbuildingaplaceoverinNatchez.”

Thetwoboyslookedatoneanother,andthenoneofthem,whowasfatwithhugeeyesandfondoftauntingme,said,“Well,Itellyou,Mister,

theonlypersonIknowofaroundherethathassomerealpurtyonesisaqueerolddoll,MissBelleRankin—she lives about ahalfmile out fromhereinarightweirdlookin’place.It’soldandrundown,builtsometimebefore the Civil War. Mighty queer, though, but if Japonicas is whatyou’relookin’for,she’sgotthenicestIeverpeekedat.”

“Yeah,”pipeduptheotherboy,whowasblondandpimply,andthefat boy’s stooge. “She oughta sell them to you. Fromwhat I hear she’sstarvin’todeathoutthere—ain’tgotnothin’’ceptanoldniggerthatlivesontheplaceandhoesaroundinaweedpatchtheycallthegarden.Why,theotherdayIhear,shewalkedintotheJitneyJunglemarketandwentaround pickin’ out the old spoiled vegetables andmakin’Olie Petersongive ’em to her. Queerest lookin’ witch you ever seen—looks like shemightbeahunnerdintheshade.Theniggersaresoscaredofher—”

But the stranger interrupted the boy’s torrent of information andasked,“Wellthen,youthinkshemightsell?”

“Sure,”saidthefatboy,withthesmirkofcertainknowledgeonhisface.

The man thanked them and started to walk out, then suddenlyturnedaroundandsaid,“Howwouldyouboysliketorideoutthereandshowmewhereitis?I’llbringyoubackafterwards.”

Thetwoloafersquicklyassented.Thatkindwasalwaysanxioustobeseen in cars, especially with strangers; it made it seem like they hadconnections,and,anyway,thereweretheinevitablecigarettes.

—

ItwasaboutaweeklaterwhenIwentintoMr.Joab’sagainthatIheardhowitturnedout.

Thefatonewasnarratingwithmuchfervortoanaudienceconsistingof Mr. Joab and myself. The more he talked the louder and moredramatichebecame.

“Itellyouthatoldwitchshouldberunoutoftown.She’scrazyasaloon.Firstofall,whenwegetoutthereshetriestorunusofftheplace.Thenshesendsthatqueeroldhoundofhersafterus.I’llbetthatthing’solderthansheis.Well,anyway,themutttriedtotakeahunkoutofme,soIkickedhimrightsquareintheteeth—thenshestartsanawfulhowl.

Finallythatoldniggerofhersgetsherquieteddownenoughsothatwecan talk to her.Mr. Ferguson, thatwas the stranger, explainedhowhewantedtobuyherflowers,youknowthoseoldJaponicatrees.Shesayssheneverheardof suchgoin’son;besides, shewouldn’t sell anyofhertreesbecauseshelikedthembetterthananythingelseshehad.Now,waittillyoucatchthis—Mr.Fergusonofferedhertwohundreddollarsjustforoneof those trees.Can you tie that—twohundredbucks!That old goattoldhimtogetofftheplace—so,finallywesawthatitwashopeless,soweleft.Mr.Fergusonwaspurtydisappointed,too;hewasreallycountin’ongetting them trees. He said they were some of the finest he had everseen.”

Heleanedbackandtookadeepbreath,exhaustedbyhislongrecital.“Damn,”hesaid,“whatdoesanybodywantwiththoseoldtreesand

attwohundredberriesathrow?Thatain’tcorn.”WhenIleftMr.Joab’s,IthoughtaboutMissBelleallthewayhome.

Ihadoftenwonderedabouther.Sheseemedtoooldtobealive—itmustbeterribletobethatold.IcouldnotseewhyshewantedtheJaponicassobadly.Theywerebeautiful,butifshewassopoor—well,Iwasyoung,andshewasveryoldwithlittleleftinlife.IwassoyoungthatIneverthoughtthatIwouldeverbeold,thatIcouldeverdie.

—

ItwasthefirstofFebruary.Dawnhadbrokendullandgraywithstreaksof pearl-white across the sky. Outside, it was cold and still withintermittentgustsofhungrywindeatingatthegray,leaflesslimbsofthehuge trees surrounding the decaying ruins of the once majestic “RoseLawn,”whereMissRankinlived.

Theroomwascoldwhensheawokeandlongtearsoficehungontheeaves of the roof. She shuddered a little as she looked about at thedrabness.Withaneffortsheslippedfrombeneaththegaycoloredscrapquilt.

Kneeling at the fireplace, she lit the dead branches that Len hadgathered the day before. Her small hand, shrunken and yellow, foughtwiththematchandthescrapedsurfaceofthelimestoneblock.

Afterawhilethefirecaught;therewasthecrackingofthewoodand

the rush of leaping flames, like the rattle of bones. She stood for amoment by the warm blaze and then moved uncertainly towards thefrozenwashbasin.

Whenshewasdressed,shewenttothewindow.Itwasbeginningtosnow,thethinwaterysnowthat falls inaSouthernwinter. Itmeltedassoon as it hit the ground, butMiss Belle, thinking of her long walk totownthatdayforfood,feltalittledizzyandill.Thenshegasped,forshesaw down below that the Japonicas were blooming; they were morebeautiful thanshehadeverseenthem.Thevividredpetalswerefrozenandstill.

Once,shecouldremember,yearsagowhenLilliewasalittlegirl,shehad picked huge baskets of them, and filled the lofty, empty rooms ofRose Lawn with their subtle fragrance and Lillie had stolen them andgiventhemawaytothenegrochildren.Howmadshehadbeen!Butnowshesmiledassheremembered.IthadbeenatleasttwelveyearssinceshehadseenLillie.

PoorLillie,she’sanoldwomanherselfnow.IwasjustnineteenwhenshewasbornandIwasyoungandpretty.JedusedtosayIwasthemostbeautiful girl he had ever known—but that was so long ago. I can’trememberexactlywhenIstartedbeinglikethis.Ican’trememberwhenIwas firstpoor—whenIstartedgettingold. Iguess itwasafterJedwentaway—Iwonderwhateverhappenedtohim.He justupandsaid tomethatIwasuglyandwornandheleft, leftmeallaloneexceptforLillie—andLilliewasnogood—nogood—

Sheputherhandsoverher face.Itstillhurt toremember,andyet,almost every day she remembered these same things and sometimes itdrove her mad and she would yell and scream, like the time the mancamewiththosetwojeeringoafs,andwantedtobuyherJaponicas;shewouldnotsellthem,never.Butshewasafraidoftheman;shewasafraidhewould steal them andwhat could she do—people would laugh. Andthatwaswhyshehadscreamedatthem;thatwaswhyshehatedthemall.

Lencameintotheroom.Hewasasmallnegro,oldandstooped,withascaracrosshisforehead.

“MissBelle,”heaskedinawheezyvoice,“wereyougwinetotown?Iwouldn’t go if Iwasyou,MissBelle. It’smightynastyout there today.”Whenhe spoke, a gustof smoky steamcameoutofhismouth into the

coldair.“Yes, Len, I have to go to town today. I’m goin’ in a littlewhile; I

wanttobebackbeforeit’sdark.”Outside, the smoke from the ancient chimney rose in lazy curling

cloudsandhungabovethehouseinabluefog,asifitwerefrozen—thenwaswhirledawayinagustofbitterwind!

—

Itwas quite darkwhenMissBelle started climbing up the hill towardshome.Darkcamequicklyonthesewinterdays.Itcamesosuddenlytodaythatitfrightenedheratfirst.Therewasnoglowingsunset,onlythepearlgraynessof theskydeepening intorichblack.Thesnowwasstill fallingandtheroadwasslushyandcold.Thewindwasstrongerandtherewasthesharpcrackingofdeadlimbs.Shebentundertheweightofherheavybasket. Ithadbeenagoodday.Mr.Johnsonhadgivenheralmostone-thirdofahamandthatlittleOliePetersonhadhadquiteafewunsalablevegetables.Shewouldnothavetogobackforatleasttwoweeks.

When she reached the house, she stopped a minute for breath,lettingthehampersliptotheground.Then,shewalkedtotheedgeoftheland and started picking some of the huge rose-like Japonicas; shecrushedoneagainstherfacebutshedidnotfeelitstouch.Shegatheredanarmloadandstartedbacktothehamper,whensuddenlyshethoughtshe heard a voice. She stood still and listened, but there was only thewindtoanswer.

Shefeltherselfslippingdownandcouldnothelpit;shegrabbedintothedarknessforsupport,buttherewasonlyemptiness.Shetriedtocryout for help but no sound came. She felt great waves of emptinesssweeping over her; fleeting scenes swept through her. Her life—utterfutilityandamomentaryglimpseofLillie,ofJed,andasharppictureofhermotherwithalongleancane.

—

IrememberitwasacoldwinterdaywhenAuntJennytookmedowntotheoldrundownplacewhereMissBellelived.MissBellehaddiedduringthe night and an old colored fellow that lived there on the place had

foundher. Just about everybody in townwas going out tohave a look.Theyhadn’tmovedheryetbecausethecoronerhadn’tgivenpermission.Sowesawherjustasshehaddied.ItwasthefirsttimeIhadeverseenadeadpersonandI’llneverforgetit.

She was lying in the yard by those Japonica trees of hers. All thewrinkles were smoothed on her face, and the bright flowers werescatteredallover.

Shelookedsosmallandreallyyoung.Therewerelittleflakesofsnowinherhairandoneofthoseflowerswaspressedcloseagainsthercheek.IthoughtshewasoneofthemostbeautifulthingsthatIhadeverseen.

Everybodysaidhowsaditwasandeverything,butIthoughtthiswasstrangeas theywere theoneswhoused to laughandmake jokesabouther.

Well, Miss Belle Rankin was certainly an odd one and probably alittle touched, but she really looked lovely that cold Februarymorningwith that flower pressed against her cheek and lying there so still andquiet.

IfIForgetYou

Gracehadstoodwaitingontheporchforhimforalmostanhour.Whenshehadseenhimdownintownthatafternoonhehadsaidhewouldbethereateight.Itwasalmosteight-ten.Shesatdownintheporchswing.Shetriednottothinkofhiscomingoreventolookdowntheroadinthedirection of his house. She knew that if she thought about it, it wouldneverhappen.Hejustwouldn’tevercome.

“Grace,areyoustilloutthere,hasn’thecomeyet?”“No,Mother.”“Wellyoucan’tsitouttherefortherestofthenight,comerightback

intothishouse.”Shedidn’twanttogobackin,shedidn’twanttohavetosit inthat

stuffyoldlivingroomandwatchherfatherreadthenewsandhermotherwork the cross word puzzles. Shewanted to stay out here in the nightwhereshecouldbreatheandsmellandtouchit.Itseemedsopalpabletoherthatshecouldfeelitstexturelikefinebluesatin.

“Here he comes now,Mother,” she lied, “he’s coming up the roadnow,I’mgoingtorunandmeethim.”

“You’lldonothingofthesort,GraceLee,”saidhermother’ssonorousvoice.

“Yes,Mother,yes!I’llbebackassoonasIsaygoodbye.”She trippeddown theporchstepsandout into the roadbeforeher

mothercouldsayanythingmore.Shehadmadeuphermindthatshewasgoingtojustkeeprighton

walking until she met him, even if she had to walk all the way to hishouse.Thiswasabignightforher,notexactlyahappyone,butitwasabeautifuloneanyway.

Hewasgoing to leave town,afterall theseyears. Itwouldseemsofunnyafterhewasgone.Sheknewnothingwouldeverbequitethesameagain. Once in school, when Miss Saaron asked the pupils to write apoem,shehadwrittenapoemabouthim,itwassogoodthatithadbeenpublishedinthetownpaper.Shehadcalledit“IntheSouloftheNight.”Sherecitedthefirsttwolinesasshesaunteredalongthemoondrenchedroad.

MylovesisaBrightStronglight,ThatshutsoutthedarknessoftheNight.

Oncehehadaskedherifshereallylovedhim.Shehadsaid,“Iloveyoufornow,butwe’rejustkids,thisisjustpuppylove.”Butsheknewshehadlied,atleastliedtoherself,fornow,forthisbriefmoment,sheknewthatshelovedhimandthenonlyamonthagoshewasquitesureitwasallverychildishandsilly.Butnowthathewasgoingawaysheknewthiswas not so. Once he had told her, after the poem episode, that sheshouldn’ttakeitsoseriously,afterallshewasonlysixteen.“Why,bythetimewe’retwenty,ifsomeonewastomentionournamestooneanotherwe probably wouldn’t even recognize the name.” She had felt terribleabout that. Yes, he would probably forget her. And now he was goingaway and she might never see him again. He might become a greatengineerjustlikehewantedtobe,andshe’dstillbesittingdownhereinalittle southern townnoone everheardof. “Maybehewon’t forgetme,”she toldherself. “Maybehe’ll comeback tomeand takemeaway fromheretosomebigplacelikeNewOrleansorChicagoorevenNewYork.”Itmadeherwildeyedwithhappinessjusttothinkofit.

The smell of the pine woods on either side of the road made herthinkofallthegoodtimestheyhadhadpicnickingandhorsebackridinganddancing.

Sherememberedthetimehehadaskedhertogotothejuniorpromwith him. That was when she had first known him.Hewas so awfullygood looking and shewas so proud of herself, no onewould have everthoughtthatlittleGraceLeewithhergreeneyesandfreckleswouldeverhave walked off with a prize like him. She had been so proud and soexcited that she had almost forgotten how to dance. She had been soembarrassedwhenshemistooktheleadandhehadsteppedonherfootandtornhersilkstocking.

Andjustwhenshehadconvincedherselfthatthiswasrealromancehermotherhadgoneandsaid that theywere justchildrenandafterallchildren just couldn’t possibly know what real “affection” was, as shetermedit.

Then the girls in town, whowere purple with envy, started a “WeDon’t Like Grace Lee Campaign.” “Look at the little fool,” they would

whisper, “just throwing herself at him.” “Why she’s no better than a—than a—harlot.” “I’d give a pretty penny to knowwhat those two havebeenupto,butIsupposeitwouldbetooshockingformyears.”

Herpacequickened,shegotmadjustwhenshethoughtofit,thosesmug little prigs. She never would forget the fight she had had withLouise Beavers the time she had caught her reading a letter she hadwrittenaloud toa lotof laughinggirls in the schoolwashroom.Louisehadstolen the letteroutofoneofGrace’sbooksandshewasreading italoudtothemallwithgreat,mockinggestures,andmakingajokeoutofsomethingthatwasn’tfunnyatall.

“Oh,well,that’sjustalotoftrivialnonsenseanyway,”shethought.The moon shone brightly in the sky, pale, wan little clouds hung

aroundthesurfacelikeafinelaceshawl.Shestaredatit.Shewouldsoonbeathishouse.Justupthishillanddownandthereshewouldbe.Itwasa fine little house, it was solid and substantial. It was just the perfectplaceforhimtolive,shethought.

Sometimesshethoughtitwasjustalotofsentiment,thispuppylove,but now shewas certain that it wasn’t.Hewas going to leave.HewasgoingawaytolivewithhisauntinNewOrleans.Hisauntwasanartist,she did not like that verymuch. She had heard that artistswere queerpeople.

He had not told her until yesterday that he was leaving. Hemusthave been a little afraid too, she thought, and now I’m the one that’safraid.Oh,howhappy everyonewouldbenow thathewas leaving andshewouldn’thavehimanymore,shecouldjustseetheirlaughingfaces.

Shebrushedthe lightblondehairoutofhereyes.Therewasacoolwindblowingthroughthetreetops.Shewasnearingthecrestofthehill,and suddenly she knew that hewas coming up the other side and thattheyweregoingtomeetatthetop.Shegrewhotalloversosurewasherpremonition.Shedidnotwanttocry,shewantedtosmile.Shefeltinherpocketforthepictureofherselfhehadaskedhertobring.Itwasacheapsnapshot that a man had taken of her at a carnival that had passedthroughthetown.Itdidn’tevenlookmuchlikeher.

Nowthatshewasalmostthereshedidn’twanttogoanyfurther.Aslongasshehadn’tactuallysaidgoodbyeshestillhadhim.Shewentandsatinthesofteveninggrassbythesideoftheroadtowaitforhim.

“AllIhopefor,”shesaidasshestaredupintothedark,moonfilledsky, “is that he doesn’t forgetme, I suppose that’s all I have a right tohopefor.”

TheMothintheFlame

AllafternoonEmhadlainonthesteel-framedbed.Shehadascrapquiltpulledoverherlegs.Shewasjust lyingthereandthinking.Theweatherhadturnedcold,evenforAlabama.

George and all the othermen from over the countryside were outlookingforcrazyoldSadieHopkins.Shehadescapedfromthejail.PooroldSadie,thoughtEm,runnin’alloverinthoseswampsandfields.Sheused tobe suchaprettygirl—justgotmixedupwith thewrong folks, Iguess.Goneplumbcrazy.

Emlookedoutthewindowofhercabin;theskywasdarkandslategray and the fields looked as if they had been frozen into furrows. Shepulled the quilt closer about her. It certainly was lonesome out in thiscountry,notanotherfarmforfourmiles,fieldsononeside,swampandwoods on the other. She felt that maybe she had been born to belonesomejustassomepeoplearebornblindordeaf.

Shestaredaroundthesmallroom,the fourwallsclosing inaroundher.Shesatsilent,listeningtothecheapalarmclock,tick-tock,tick-tock.

Suddenlythestrangestfeelingcreptupherback,afeelingoffearandhorror.Shefeltherscalptingle.Sheknew, likea flashofblinding light,that therewas someonewatchingher, someone standingverynear andwatchingherwithcold,calculating,insaneeyes.

Foramomentshelaysostillthatshecouldhearthepoundingofherheart, and the clock sounded like a sledge hammer beating against ahollowstump.Emknewthatshewasn’timaginingthings;sheknewtherewassomecauseforthisfright;sheknewbyinstinct,aninstinctsoclearandvitalthatitfilledherwholebody.

Slowly shegotupandgazedabout the room.She sawnothing; yetshefeltthattherewassomeonestaringather,followinghereverymove.

She picked up the first thing that she touched, a stick of lightingwood.Thenshecalledinaboldvoice,“Whoisit?Whatdoyouwant?”

Onlycoldsilencemetherquestions.Despitetheactualphysicalcoldshegrewhotallover;shefelthercheeksburning.

“Iknowyou’rehere,”shescreamedhysterically.“Whatdoyouwant?Whydon’tyoushowyourself?Comeout,yousneakin’—”

Thensheheardavoice,tiredandfrightened,behindher.“It’sonlyme,Em—Sadie,youknow,SadieHopkins.”Emwhirledaround.Thewomanwhostoodinfrontofherwashalf

naked,herhairhangingwildlyaboutherscratchedandbruisedface.Herlegswereallmarkedwithblood.

“Em,”shepleaded,“pleasehelpme.I’mtiredandhungry.Hidemesomeplace.Don’tletthemcatchme,pleasedon’t.They’lllynchme;theythinkI’mcrazy.I’mnotcrazy;youknowthat,Em.Please,Em.”Shewascrying.

Emwastooshockedanddazedtoreply.Shestumbledandsatdownontheedgeofthebed.“Whatareyoudoin’inhere,Sadie?Howdidyougetin?”

“Icamethroughthebackdoor,”thecrazywomananswered.“I’vegotto hide someplace. They’re headin’ this way through the swamps andthey’llfindhimsoon.Oh,Ididn’tmeantodoit;Ididn’tmeanit,Em.TheLordknowsIdidn’tmeanit.”

Emlookedatherblankly.“Whatareyoutalkin’about?”sheasked.“ThatHenderson boy,” cried Sadie. “He caught up withme in the

woods.Hewasholdin’meandclawin’meandscreamin’fortheothers.Ididn’t know what to do; I was scared. I tripped him; he fell overbackwards,andIjumpedonhimandhithimintheheadwithabigrock.I justcouldn’t seemtostophittin’him. Ionlymeant toknockhimout,butwhenIlooked—OH,GOD!”

Sadieleanedbackagainstthedoor,andbegantochuckleandthentolaugh.Soonthewholeroomwasfilledwithwild,hystericallaughter.Theduskhadfallen,andthebrightflamesfromthelimestonefireplaceplayedweird shadows around the room. They danced in the blackness of theinsane woman’s eyes; they seemed to lash her hysteria into a wilderfrenzy.

Em sat on the bed, horrified and dazed, her eyes filled withbewildermentandterror.ShewashypnotizedbySadie,andherdark,evillaughter.

“Butyou’ll letmestay,won’tyou,Em?” thewomanshrieked.Thenshe looked into Em’s eyes. She stopped laughing. “Please, Em,” shebegged.“Idon’twantthemtocatchme.Idon’twanttodie;Iwanttolive.

They’vedonethistome;they’vemademethewayIam.”She lookedintothefire.Sheknewthatshewouldhavetogo.Then

presently she asked, “Em,what part of the swamp aren’t they going tocovertoday?”

DeliberatelyEmsatup,hereyesburningwithhystericaltears.“Theyaren’tgoin’ tocovertheHawkins’sectiontill tomorrow.”Whenshehadtold the lie, she felt her stomach sink; she felt as if she were fallingthroughathousandyears.

“Goodbye,Em.”“Goodbye,Sadie.”Sadie walked out of the front door and Emwatched her until she

reachedtheedgeoftheswampanddisappearedintoitsdarkjungle-likedepths.

PartII

Emcollapsedontothebedandbegantocry.Shecrieduntilshefellintoafeverish sleep. She was awakened by the sound of men talking. Shelookedout into thedarkyardand sawGeorgeandHankSimmonsandBonyYarbercomingtowardthehouse.

Quickly she jumped up, got a wet cloth, and wiped her face. Sheturnedupa lamp in thekitchenandwas sitting readingwhen themencamein.

“Hello,honey,” saidGeorge,depositingakissonher cheek. “Gosh,butyou’rehot.Areyoufeelin’allright?”

Shenoddedherhead.“Hello,Em,”saidtheothertwomen.She didn’t bother to return their salutation. She sat reading. They

eachtookadrinkofwaterfromthedipper.“Boy,thatsuretastesgood,”saidGeorge,“buthowaboutsomethin’

withalittlemorepunchtoit,eh,boys?”HenudgedBony.SuddenlyEmlaiddownhermagazine.Cautiouslyshelookedaround

atthem.“Did—did,”hervoicequaveredalittlebit,“didyoufindSadie?”“Yes,” answered George, “we found her in one of those whirlpools

over inHawkins’mirey part of the swamp. She’d drowned, committedsuicide,Iguess.Butlet’sdon’ttalkaboutit;itwasGod-awful.Itwas—”

Buthedidn’tfinish.Emjumpedupfromthetable,knockedthelampover,andranintothebedroom.

“Now, what the hell do you suppose is eatin’ her, I wonder,” saidGeorge.

SwampTerror

“Well,I’mshoretellin’you,Jep,youjustain’tgotthesenseyouwuzbornwithifyougonnagooninthesewoodslookin’forthatconvict.”

Theboywho spokewas small,with anut-brown face coveredwithfreckles.Helookedeagerlyathiscompanion.

“Listenhere,”Jepsaid.“IknowverywellwhutI’mdoin’—an’Idon’tneednoneofyo’adviceornoneofyo’sassymouth.”

“Boy,Idobelieveyouiscrazy.Whutwouldyo’masayifshewastoknow you was out here in these spooky ol’ woods lookin’ fo’ some ol’convict?”

“Lemmie,I’mnotaskin’fo’noneofyo’mouth,an’Isho’ain’taskin’fo’youtobetaggin’alongherewithme.Nowyoucangoonback—Petean’Iwillgoonandfindthatol’buzzard—thenwetwo,justustwo,willgodown an’ tell those searchin’ parties where he be. Won’t we, Pete, ol’boy?”Hepattedabrown-and-tandogtrottingalongbyhisside.

Theywalkedonalittlefartherinsilence.TheboycalledLemmiewasundecidedwhattodo.Thewoodsweredarkandsoquiet.Occasionallyabirdwouldflutterorsinginthetrees,andwhentheirpathrannearthestream they could hear itmoving swiftly along over the rocks and tinywaterfalls. Yes, indeed, it was too quiet. Lemmie hated the thought ofwalking back to the edge of the woods alone, but he hated the idea ofgoingonwithJepevenworse.

“Well,Jep,”hesaidfinally,“IguessI’lljustmoseyonback.I’mshorenotgoin’onintothisplaceanyfarther,notwithallthesetreesan’busheseveryplace thatol’ convict couldhidebehind,an’ jumponyou,an’killyoudeader’nanol’doorknob.”

“Aw,goonback,youbigsissy.Ihopehegitsyouwhileyouisgoin’backthru’theol’woodsbyyuhself.”

“Well,solong—IguessI’llbeseein’youinschooltomorrow.”“Maybe.Solong.”Jep could hear Lemmie running back through the underbrush, his

feetscurryinglikeascaredrabbit.“That’swhatheis,”thoughtJep,“justascared rabbit.What a baby Lemmie is.We never should have broughthimalongwithus,shouldwe’ve,Pete?”

He demanded the last vocally, and the old brown-and-tan dog,perhapsfrightenedbythesilencebeingtoosuddenlyinterrupted,letoutaquick,scared,littlebark.

Theywalkedoninsilence.EverynowandthenJepwouldstopandstand listeningattentively intothe forest.Butheheardnot theslightestsound to indicate a presence trespassing here, other than his own.Sometimes theywouldcometoaclearedplacecarpetedwithsoftgreenmoss and shaded by big magnolia trees covered with large whiteblossoms—smellingofdeath.

“I guess maybe I should’ve listened to Lemmie. It shore ’nuff isspookydowninhere.”Hestaredupintothetopsofthetrees,everynowand then seeingpatchesof blue. Itwas sodarkhere in thispart of thewoods—almostlikenight.Suddenlyheheardawhirringsound.Almostinthatsecondherecognizedit;hestoodparalyzedwithfear—thenPeteletoutashort,horrible,littleyelp.Itbrokethespell.Heturnedaround,andtherewasabigrattlesnakepoisedtostrikeasecondtime.Jepjumpedasfar ashe could, tripped, and fell flat onhis face.OhGod!Thiswas theend! He forced his eyes to look around, expecting to see the snakewhirlingthroughtheairathim,butwhenhiseyesfinallycameintofocus,nothingwasthere.Thenhesawthetipofatailandalongcordofsingingbuttonscrawlingintotheundergrowth.

Forseveralminuteshecouldn’tmove,hewassodazedbyshock,andhis bodywas numbwith terror. Finally he raised up on his elbow andlooked for Pete, but Petewasn’t anywhere in sight.He jumped up andbegan to search frantically for the dog.When he found him, Pete hadrolleddowna redgulleyandwas lyingdeadat thebottom,all stiffandswollen.Jepdidn’tcry;hewastoofrightenedforthat.

Nowwhatwouldhedo?Hedidn’tknowwherehewas.Hebegantorunand then to tearmadly through the forest,buthe couldn’t find thepath. Oh, what was the use? He was lost. Then he remembered thestream,but thatwasuseless. It ran through the swamp,and inparts itwastoodeeptowade;andinthesummeritwassuretobeinfestedwithmoccasins. Darkness was coming on, and the trees began to throwgrotesqueshadowsabouthim.

“How does that ol’ convict stand it in here?” he thought. “Oh,myGod,theconvict!Iforgetall’bouthim.I’vegottogetoutofthisplace.”

Heranonandon.Finallyhecametooneof theclearedspots.Themoonwasshiningrightinthecenter.Itlookedlikeacathedral.

“Maybe if Iclimba tree,”he thought, “Icansee the fieldan’ figgeroutawaytogetthere.”

Helookedaroundforthetallestofthetrees.Itwasastraight,slicksycamore,withnobranchesnearthebottom.Buthewasagoodclimber.Maybehecouldmakeit.

Heclaspedthetrunkofthetreewithhisstrong,littlelegsandbegantopullhimselfupward, inchby inch.Hewould climb two feet and slipdown one. He kept his head strained back, looking up at the nearestbranchhecouldclasp.Whenhereachedit,hegrabbeditandlethislegsdanglefreefromthetreetrunk.Foraminutehethoughthewasgoingtofall, dangling there in space. Thenhe swunghis leg over the next limbandsatastraddleit,pantingforbreath.Afterawhilehecontinuedonup,climbing,limbafterlimb.Thegroundgotfartherandfartheraway.Whenhe reached the top, he stuck his head up over the tree top and lookedaround,buthecouldseenothingexcepttrees,treeseverywhere.

Hedescendedtothebroadestandthestrongestofthetreelimbs.Hefeltsafeuphere,withthegroundsofaraway.Upherenoonecouldseehim.Hewouldhavetospendthenightinthetree.Ifonlyhecouldstayawakeandnotfallasleep.Buthewassotiredthateverythingseemedtobewhirlingaroundandaround.Heshuthiseyesforaminuteandalmostlosthisbalance.Hecameoutofhis trancewithastartandslappedhischeeks.

Itwassoquiet,hecouldn’tevenhearthecricketsnorthebullfrogs’nightly serenade. No, everything was quiet and frightening andmysterious.Whatwasthat?Hejumpedwithastart;heheardvoices;theywerecomingclose; theywerealmostuponhim!He lookeddownto theearthandhecouldseetwofiguresmovingintheunderbrush.Theywerecomingtowardstheclearing.Oh,oh,thankGod!Itmustbesomeofthesearchers.

But then he heard one of the voices, tiny and frightened, scream:“Stop!Ohplease,pleaselemmego!Iwanttogohome!”

WherehadJepheardthatvoicebefore?Ofcourse,itwasLemmie’svoice!

ButwhatwasLemmiedoingwaydownhereinthesewoods?Hehad

gonehome.Whohadhim?All these thoughts ran through Jep’smind;thensuddenlytherealizationofwhatwashappeningdawnedonhim.TheescapedconvicthadLemmie!

Avoice,deepandthreatening,splittheair:“Shutup,youbrat!”He could hear Lemmie’s scared sobbing. Their voices were quite

clearnow;theywerealmostdirectlyunderthetree.Jepheldhisbreathwithfear.Hecouldhearhisheartpound,andhecouldfeeltheacheofhisstomach’sknottedmuscles.

“Sitdownhere,kid,” theconvictcommanded,“andstop thatdamncryin’!”

Jep could see that Lemmie fell helplessly to the ground and rolledoveronthesoftmoss,tryingdesperatelytostiflehissobs.

Theconvictwasstillstanding.Hewasbigandbulgedwithmuscles.Jepcouldnotseehishair; itwascoveredwithamassivestrawhat—thekindtheconvictswearwhentheyareworkingonthechaingang.

“Nowtellme,kid,”hedemandedofLemmiebyshovinghim, “howmanypeoplearethereoutlookin’forme?”

Lemmiedidn’tsayathing.“Answerme!”“Idon’tknow,”Lemmieansweredfaintly.“All right. O.K. But tell me—what parts of the woods have they

alreadycovered?”“Idon’tknow.”“Aw, damn you.” The convict slapped Lemmie across the cheek.

Lemmiebrokeintorenewedhysterics.“Oh,no!No!Thiscan’tbehappeningtome,”Jepthought.“It’salla

dream,anightmare.I’llwakeupandfindoutthatitain’tso.”He shut his eyes and opened them, in a physical attempt to prove

that it was all just a nightmare. But there they were, the convict andLemmie;andherehewas,perchedinthetree,scaredeventobreathe.Ifonly he had something heavy, he could drop it on top of the convict’shead andknockhim cold.Buthedidn’t have anything.He stoppedhisthoughtsinmid-passage,fortheconvictwasspeakingagain.

“Well, comeon, kid;we can’t stayhere all night. Themoon’s goin’out, too—must be goin’ to rain.” He scanned the sky through the tree

tops.Jep’sbloodfrozewithterror;itseemedasifhewaslookingrightat

him;hewaslookingrightatthebranchhewassittingon.Anyminutehewouldseehim.Jepclosedhiseyes.Thesecondspoundedpastlikehours.Whenhefinallygotupthecouragetolookagain,hesawthattheconvictwastryingtopickLemmieupofftheground.Hehadn’tseenhim,thankGod!

Theconvictsaid:“Comeon,kid,beforeIcuffyuhagoodone.”HewasholdingLemmiehalfwayup, like a sackof potatoes.Then

suddenlyhedroppedhim.“Shutupthatcryin’!”hescreamedathim.Soelectrifying was the tone of his voice that Lemmie stopped dead still.Somethingwasthematter.Theconvictwasstandingbythetree,listeningattentivelyintotheforest.

Then Jep heard it, too. Something was coming through theundergrowth.He heard twigs snapping and bushes being scraped past.Fromwherehewassittinghecouldseewhatitwas.Thereweretenmenclosinginacirclearoundtheclearing.Buttheconvictcouldonlyhearthenoise.Hewasn’tsurewhatitwas;hebecamepanicky.

Lemmieyelled,“Hereweare!Here—Overhe—!”Buttheconvicthadgrabbed him; hewas furtively pressing Lemmie’s face into the ground.The littlebodywas squirmingandkicking,and then,all of a sudden, itwentlimpandlayverystill.Jepsawtheconvicttakehishandoffthebackoftheboy’shead.SomethingwasthematterwithLemmie.ThenJepsawitinaflash;itwaslikesomethinghejustknew—Lemmiewasdead!Theconvicthadsmotheredhimtodeath!

The men were no longer creeping in; they broke through theunderbrush furiously. The convict saw he was trapped; he backed upagainstthetrunkofJep’streeandbegantowhine.

Andthenitwasallover.Jepyelledandthemenheldtheirarmstocatchhim.Hejumpedandlanded,unharmed,inthearmsofoneofthemen.

Theconvictwashandcuffedandcrying.“Thatdamnedkid!Itwasallhisfault!”

JeplookedoveratLemmie.Oneofthemenwasbendingoverhim.Jep heard him turn to a man by his side and say, “Yep, he’s dead allright.”

ItwasthenthatJepbegantolaugh;helaughedhysterically,andhotsaltytearsrandownhischeeks.

TheFamiliarStranger

“And Beulah,” Nannie called, “before you go, come in here and fixmypillows,thisrockingchair’sawfullyuncomfortable.”

“Yes,ma’am,ah’llberightthere.”Nannie sighed heavily. She picked up the paper and thumbed

throughthefirstsheetstothesocietysection—orsocialcolumnastherewasn’tanyrealsocietyinCollinsville.

“Let’sseenow,”shesaid,adjustingherhornrimmedglassesoverherproudnose.“ ‘Mr.andMrs.YanceyBatesgotoMobiletovisitrelatives.’Not nothin’ much to that, people are always visiting each other,” shemusedhalfaloud.She turneddown to thedeathnotices, italwaysgaveheragrimpleasuretoreadthem.Daybydaythepeopleshehadknownall her life, themen andwomen she had grown upwith, theywere alldying.Shewasproudthatshewasstillalivewhiletheylaycoldandstillintheirgraves.

Beulah came into the room. She came over to the rocker inwhichMissNanniesatreadingthepaper.Shetookthepillowsoutfrombehindtheagingwoman’sback,puffedthemupandarrangedthemcomfortablyagainbehindhermistress’sback.

“That feels much better, Beulah. You know I get this rheumatismevery timeabout thisyear. It’s sopainfuland Ido feel sohelpless, yes,indeed,sohelpless.”

Beulahnoddedagreeingly,sympathetically.“Yes,ma’am, ah knows just how it be. Ah had an uncle once near

’boutdiedfromit.”“Iseehereinthepaper,Beulah,whereoldWillLarsondied.Funny

noonehas calledmeupor toldmeabout it.Heused tobea friendofmine, you know, Beulah, a very good friend.” She nodded her headwaggishly, implying, of course, that he had been one of her legion ofphantomadmirers.

“Well,”saidBeulah,glancingatthebiggrandfatherclockthatstoodagainstthewall,“ahguessahbettahbegoin’ondowntothedoctah’stogetyomedicine.Justyoustaythereandah’llbebackrealquick.”

She disappeared out the door and in about five minutes Nannie

heard the front door slam. She glanced over the paper oncemore. Shetried to get interested in the editorial, she tried the article about theproposednewfurniturefactorybutalwaysbysomeirresistible,magneticforcesheturnedbacktotheobituarynotices.Shereadthemovertwoorthreetimes.Yes,shehadknownthemall.

She looked into the bright red and blue flames that burned in thefireplace.Howmanytimeshadshegazedintothatfireplace?Howmanycoldwintermorningshad she arisen fromunderneathher bright scrapquilts, hopped across the freezing floor andpainfully built a fire there?Thousands of times! She had always lived in this house on the mainresidentialstreet,andsohadherfatherandhisfatherbeforehim.Theyhadbeen realpioneers, shewasproudofherheritage.But all thatwaspast,hermotherandfatherweredead,andheroldfriendswerepassingaway,slowly,almostunobserved.Noonewouldhardlythinkthatitwasthe passing of a sort of dynasty, a dynasty of southern aristocracy—thehamlet, the village, the city. They were passing in the night, the tinyflames of their lives were being blown out by that strange and unseenforce.

Shepushed thepaper out of her lap and closedher eyes.Theheatandclosenessoftheroommadeherfeelsleepy.Shehadalmostfallentosleepwhenshewasawakenedbythegrandfatherclockchimingthehour.One,two,three,four—

Shelookedupandsheseemedalittlestartled,shesensedapresenceintheroom,otherthanherown.Shereachedforherglassesand,slippingthemon,shelookedabouttheroom.Everythingseemedinorder.Itwasterriblyquiet,theredidn’tevenseemtobethesoundofcarspassingonthestreet.

Whenhereyes finallycameto focusshesawhim.Hewasstandingdirectlyinfrontofher.Shegavealittlegasp.

“Oh,”shesaid,“it’syou.”“Youknowmethen?”saidtheyounggentleman.“Yourfaceseemsfamiliar.”Hervoicewascalmandonlysurprised.“I do not wonder,” the gentleman spoke eloquently. “I know you

quitewell. Irememberseeingyouoncewhenyouwereavery littlegirl,youwereasweetchild.Don’tyourememberthetimeIcametovisityourmother?”

Nannie looked at him hard. “No, I don’t remember, you could nothave known my mother—you are so young. I am an old woman, mymotherwasdeadbeforeyouwereevenborn.”

“Oh,no—no.Irememberyourmotherquitewell.Averyreasonablewoman. You look somewhat like her. The nose, the eyes, and you bothhadthesamewhitehair.Quiteremarkable,quite!”Themanlookeddownather.Hiseyeswereveryblackandhislipswereveryred,almostasifhehadthemrouged.Heseemedattractivetotheoldwoman;shefeltherselfbeingdrawntohim.

“I remember you now. Yes, of course, I was just a little girl. But Iremember you, you came and woke me up very late one night, thenight”—suddenlyshegasped,aglintofrecognitionandhorrorswepthereyes—“thenightmymotherdied!”

“That’s right, my, but you have a remarkable memory, for one soold!” His voice inflected the last few words deliberately. “But youremembermemanytimessincethen.Thenightyourfatherpassedaway,and therewere countless other times. Yes, yes indeed, I have seen youmany times and youme, it is only now, thismoment, that you shouldhave recognizedme.Why, only the other night I was talking to an oldfriendofyours,WillLarson.”

Nannie’sfacebleachedwhite,hereyeswereburningfromherhead,shecouldnottakehereyesfromtheman’sface.Shedidnotwanthimtotouch her, just so long as he did not touch her she felt quite safe.Presentlyshesaidinahollowvoice:

“Thenyoumustbe—”“Now come,” interrupted the stranger. “My good lady, let us not

quibble. It will not be bad, as a matter of fact it is a rather pleasantsensation.”

Shegraspedthesidesofthechair,andbegantorockfeverishly.“Getaway,” shewhisperedhoarsely. “Getaway fromme,don’t touchme,nonotnow,isthisallIamtogetoutoflife,itisn’tfair,stayaway,please!”

“Oh,”laughedthesleekyounggentleman,“madam,youarebehavinglikeachildabout to takeacastoroil. Iassureyou it isnot the leastbitunpleasant.Now,justcomehere,closer,closer,letmekissyouuponthebrow,itwillbequitepainless,youfeelsoquietandrestful,itwillbejustlikefallingasleep.”

Nanniepushedherselfasfarbackinthechairasshecould.Hisredpaintedlipswerecomingnearer.Shewantedtoscreambutshecouldn’tevenbreathe.Shehadn’teverthoughtitwouldbelikethis.Shescrougeddown in the lowest corners of the chair and pushed one of the pillowstightlyoverherface.Hewasstrong,shecouldfeelhimpullingthepillowawayfromher.Hisface,hispuckeredlips,hisamorouseyes;hewaslikesomegrotesquelover.

Sheheardadoorslam.Shescreamedasloudasshecould.“Beulah,Beulah,Beulah!”Sheheardtherunningfootsteps.Shepushedthepillowaway.Thecoloredwoman’sblackfacelookeddownather.

“What’s ailin’ you,Miss Nannie? Is somthin’ wrong? Do you wantthatIshouldcallthedoctah?”

“Whereishe?”“Whariswho,MissNannie?Whatyoutalkin’about?”“Hewashere, I sawhim,hewasafterme,oh,Beulah I tell youhe

washere.”“Aw,now,MissNannie,youbeenhavingthosenightmaresagain.”Nannie’seyeslosttheirhystericalvioletspark;shelookedawayfrom

the troubledBeulah.The fire in the fireplacewasdying slowly, the lastflamesdancingmincingly.

“Nightmare?Thistime?Iwonder.”

Louise

Ethel opened the door stealthily and looked up and down the darkcorridor.Itwasdesertedandshesighedwithreliefassheclosedthedoor.Well,thatwasonethingdone,andtheonlythingshehadfoundoutwasthateitherLouisedidn’tkeephermailorsheburnedit.Therestofthemmustbedownatdinner,shethought;I’llsayIhadasickheadache.

Shecreptdownthestairsandwentquicklyacrossthegreatlounge,acrosstheterrace,andintothediningroom.Theroomwasfilledwiththesoundofgirls’laughingandtalking.Unobserved,shetookherplacenexttoMadameatthefourthtable inthequietlypretentiousdiningsalonofMissBurke’sAcademyforYoungLadies.

In answer to Madame’s questioning eyes, she lied, “I’ve beensufferingfromasevereheadache—IlaydowntorestandIsupposeImusthavefallenasleep—Ididnothearthedinnerchimes.”Shespokewiththesmoothperfectionofwordingandaccent thatMissBurkesodesiredallherstudentstoacquire.Ethelwas,inMissBurke’sopinion,theepitomeofallthatshecouldeverhopetoattainamongherstudents.Ayoungladyof seventeen with background, wealth, and certainly a most brilliantmind. The majority of the Academy girls thought Ethel rather on thestupid side—that is, about life. Ethel, in turn, blamed her unpopularityuponLouiseSemon,aFrenchgirlofexquisitebeauty.

Louise was generally acknowledged to be the Queen Bee of theAcademy.Thegirlsworshippedher,and the teachers jealouslyadmiredherbothforhermindandforheralmostuncannybeauty.Shewasatallgirl, magnificently proportioned, with dark olive skin. Jet black hairframed her face and flowed rich and wavy to her shoulders—undercertainlightsitcastoffabluishhalo.Hereyes,asMadameoftablefourhadonceexclaimedinaraptureofadmiration,wereasblackasthenight.She was dearly loved by everyone—everyone except Ethel and possiblyMiss Burke herself, who somehow vaguely resented the girl’s influenceovertheentireschool.Shedidnotfeelthatitwasgoodfortheschoolorforthegirlherself.ThegirlhadhadexcellentlettersfromthePetiteEcoleinFranceandtheMantoneAcademyinSwitzerland.MissBurkehadmetneither of the girl’s parents, who resided at their chalet in Geneva. Allarrangements had beenmade through aMr. Nicoll, Louise’s American

guardian, from whomMiss Burke received her check annually. LouisehadcomeattheopeningofthefallsemesterandhadwithinfivemonthsputtheAcademyintothepalmofherhand.

Ethel despised the Semon girl, who, it was rumored, was thedaughter of a French Count and a Corsican heiress. She loathedeverythingabouther—herlooks,herpopularity,thesmallestdetailofherpersonandmannerisms.AndEtheldidnotknowexactlywhy—itwasnotaltogetherbecauseshewasjealous,thoughthatwasagreatdealof it; itwas not because she thought Louise laughed at her secretly or becausesheactedasifEthelneverexisted—itwassomethingelse.EthelsuspectedsomethingaboutLouise thatnooneelsewouldeverhavedreamedof—and she meant to find out if she was right. Louise might not be sowonderful then. Maybe she hadn’t found anything in her room thisafternoon,notevenaletter—nothing.ButEthelsmiledacrossthediningroomtothetablewhereLouisesatgailylaughingandtalking,thecenterofattention—forEthelhadalittleinterviewplannedwithMissBurkeforthatnight!

II

Thegrandfather clockwas chimingeight in the reception salonofMissBurke’s quarters where Ethel stood nervously waiting. The lights weredim, and the corners of the room were in darkness—the wholeatmosphere was cold and Victorian. Ethel waited at the window—watching the first snowfallof theyear, thewhitemantlingof thenakedtrees and the dusty, silver cloaking of the earth. “Imust write a poemabout this sometime—‘The First Snowfall’ by Ethel Pendleton.” Shesmiledwanlyandsatdownonadarktapestriedchair.

ThedoorattheotherendoftheroomopenedandMildredBarnettemergedfromMissBurke’sprivatesittingroom.

“Goodnight,MissBurke,andthankyoueversomuchforyourhelp.”Ethelmovedawayfromtheshadowsandcrossedthesalonquickly.

She paused at the door of Miss Burke’s sitting room and took a deepbreath; she knew justwhat shewas going to say—after all,Miss Burke

should knowwhat she suspected; it was all for the good of the school,nothingelse.ButEthelknewshewaslyingeventoherself.SheknockedsoftlyandwaiteduntilsheheardMissBurke’shighvoice.

“Comein,please.”Miss Burke was seated in front of her fireplace, drinking a small

China demi-tasse of coffee. There was no other light in the room andEthel thought,asshesatdownonthesoftcushionatMissBurke’s feet,thatitwasstrangelylikeasceneofpeaceandcontentmentonaholidaycard.

“How nice of you to drop in on me, Ethel, my dear. Is theresomethingthatImaydoforyou?”

Ethelalmostwanted to laugh—itwasso funny, so ironic. In fifteenminutesthiselderly,composedwomanwouldbequiteshaken.

“Miss Burke, something has come to my notice, which, I believe,warrants your immediate attention.” She had chosen her languagecarefullyandaccentedthewordspreciselyinthemannerthatMissBurkesoheartily feltwascorrectandgenteel. “It is inconnectionwithLouiseSemon. You see, a friend of my family’s, a physician, called on merecentlyhereatschooland—”

MissBurkeputdownherdemi-tasseandlistenedtoEthel’sstoryinshockedamazement.Herstatelyfaceflushed.Onceduringtherecitationshe exclaimed, “But, Ethel, this can not be true—I made all thearrangementsthroughapersonofobviousintegrity—aMr.Nicoll—surelyhe would know we could never allow such a thing—such a dreadfulthing!”

“I know it is true,” Ethel exclaimed, petulant at this disbelief; “Iswearit!CallthisMr.Nicolltomorrow,askhim—tellhimthesituationisintolerableandjeopardizingthestandingofyourschool—ifIamright.Iknow that I am.No—do not rely onMr. Nicoll alone. Surely there areauthorities—?”

And Miss Burke nodded. She was becoming more convinced andmore shocked everyminute. Therewas only the sound of Ethel’s voiceand the soft purr of the fire—and the gentle presence of falling snow,whisperingatthewindowpane.

III

TherewasonepalelightburninginthecorridorwhenEthelreachedherroom.The signal for lightsouthadbeengivenagoodhourbefore.Shewouldhavetoundressinthedark.Theinstantsheenteredherroomsheknewsomethingwaswrong.Sheknewshewasnotalone.

Inafrightenedwhisper,shesaid,“Who’shere?”Insuddenterrorshethought, “It’s Louise. Somehow she’s found out—she knows—and she’scomehere.”

Then,abovethebeatingofherownheart,sheheardthesoftrustleofsilkandahandclutchedherarmtightly.

“ItisI—Mildred.”“MildredBarnett?”“Yes,Icameheretostopwhatyou’redoing!”Ethelattemptedtolaugh,butitstoppedsomewhereandshecoughed

instead.“Ihaven’ttheslightest—noteventhefoggiestnotionwhatyou’retalkingabout.Stopwhat?”Butshefeltthefalsenessinhervoiceandshewasfrightened.

Mildred shook her. “You knowwhat Imean! You sawMiss Burketonight—I listened. Perhaps it’s not themost honorable thing, but I’mgladIdidifIcanhelpLouiseoutofthatlieyoutoldtonight.”

Ethel triedtopushheraccuser’sarmaway.“Stop it!you’rehurtingme!”

“Youdidlie—didn’tyou?”Mildred’svoicewashoarsewithfury.“No—no—itwasthetruth—Iswearit.MissBurke’sgoingtofindout

ifitisn’tthetruth;thenyou’llsee.Youwon’tthinklittleMissSemonissowonderfulthen!”

Mildred released her grip on Ethel. “Listen, it wouldn’t make oneparticleofdifferencetomewhetheritwastrueornot—youaren’tevenina class with that girl.” She paused for amoment and chose her wordscarefully.“Takemyadvice—gotoMissBurkeandtellheryouwerelying—orI’mnotresponsibleforyourhealth,EthelPendleton.You’replayingwithdynamite!”

Withthatasafarewell,sheopenedthedoorandslammeditwitha

bang.Ethel stood shivering in the terrible darkness. Itwasn’t because of

Louise—shedidn’tcareaboutthat—itwastheothers.Mildredwouldt