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in at the time she always expected them and ordered the same break-
fast combination they had every other morning. Finally Mrs. Har-
mon shuffled slowly in. "Honey, I guess I'm kind of late this morning.
It was so rainy when I got up that myoId bones couldn't get the spirit
to move around. I hope I won't inconvenience you any," she added
with a smile.

Jo tried to smile and say, "Oh, you don't ever do that, Mrs. Har-
mon," as she had done so many times before, but it wouldn't come
out. So she only smiled at the old lady, but couldn't help noticing
how feeble her hand was as she picked up her napkin-the shriveled-
up hand that would squeeze the little envelope with the measly two
dollars in it into her hand tomorrow. She tucked a strand of her sun-
streaked hair under its net and wondered how it was going to feel
to walk down by the ocean alone-but then, summer would only be
four weeks longer.

Poem

ANN BALDERSON

In years to come, when summer is no more upon your soul,
And even Autumn with its ripened fruits has left your heart,
A nd winter with its whistling winds is there to take its toll,
And in its gales your sweetest dreams seem cruelly turned to tart,
Then must your warmth be called from depths of thought
And, mem'ries, like a drifting mist, invade your bitter gloom;
Till out of pain and cold a happiness be wrought
Of things that once you knew and loved, when life was still abloom.
If in a moment of such dark despair
You conjure visions of a mossy wood still wet with rain,
Or dream of heather on a windy day, I shall not care;
It matters not to me what ghosts with you remain
To haunt you in your age, unless of course I know,
You'll think of me, and how I loved you long ago.

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