Page 19 - 0001

hard, but this was a chance to coach a real football player. This time
Slick would develop that potential.

He got out and walked past the church and into the graveyard
beside it, staring for a long time at the plain marble headstone. Then
he pulled two photographs from his wallet and stood there in the
lonely evening, looking at them. One was a picture, inscribed "To
Dad, with love," of a smiling, blond, grey-eyed boy of about twenty,
dressed in a football uniform. The other picture was a newspaper
photo of the same boy, this time in an Army uniform. The caption
under it read "Local Football Star Dies in Heroic Attack on North
Koreans."

The Road Of Life

c. N. BERIGTOLD

I walk along the road of life,
A drifting mist obscures the way.

I have no chart, I walk alone,
And long to know the light of day.

My eyes are blinded by the mist,
I strike my feet upon the stones,

And fall among the mud and thorns.
It is my lot to walk alone.

I touch a hand, I grasp it tight.
A sigh, a word, I've found the way;

Another shares my weary road.
I've found a hope, the light of day.

We tarry there, a love to find,
And on the road the sun has shone.

But then the mist fell o'er the road,
I lose the hand, I cry. Alone.

I curse my lot, I pray for death
To take from off my back the load

In death I hope to find my peace.
, How many others share my road?

17