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puts into his pocket, and the grace of the spiral, the colors, and the
fancies it brings about will remind him always of his day at the beach.

As I watch this child and his escapades along the shore, I realize
that anything having held life-holds wonder. The child knows this,
even in his carefree youth, as he listens to the whisper-like sounds of
the far-off surf.

Pause While Walking Up The
Hill At Night

MARY eRA WFORD

For a moment the lights from a neighboring building
Seemed to come from the deserted bookshop.
Wistfully I thought back to the place a year ago,
When the windows, now empty of all but dust,
Held curious pieces of hand-blown glass,
And the dingy room within was redeemed
By the elusive mustiness of antique books.
Lining the walls, venerable and worn,
These ancient volumes seemed to say,
"<Education' is on the hill, but learning is here,
"To be bought with a dollar and the attention of your soul."
What does it matter why the place was sold,
A t a sacrifice to the heart as well as to the pocket?
Its shell remains to haunt the passers-by,
And over the sign "Books Bought and Sold,'
The dead lights hand heavy with icicles.
Icicles, a crystal monument to desolation

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