Howard reached for his sister's hand. "Don't discourage the boy," he said, "You folks are all I've got. I'll see that the boys get their chance, if you and Ted will let me."
"Oh, Howard, you're sweet." Ellie brushed tears from her eyes.
Ada moved closer. She should have known about Alfred's talent but she was always too tired to take an interest in the boy's studies. Yes, Howard would take care of it. But she had planted the seed of her talent in Alfred. She had left something after all! And, through her going, Howard would be close to this family for the rest of their lives.
"I can't believe I am back here after all those years," said Howard, dreamily. "When I first left I was very homesick. But I could see no future in this town. What chance did drunken Ben Webster's kid have here? Yet, I knew that if I wrote to Mother and gave her a chance to coax me back, I would come.
"I had ambition and I did not want to destroy it by coming back here. I didn't know what I wanted to do then. But I knew that some day I would find it." He searched Ellie's face. "Do you understand that, Sis?"
"Yes. I think so."
Ada understood also. The tinkling sound of his voice was like the breaking of fine glass. The words came clear and almost before they were spoken she had their meaning. The bitterness was ebbing and in its place there was admiration.
A TIME TO LOVE
BY DON HOWARD DONNELL
Clark stretched his eighteen year old body luxuriously, rippling the splendid muscles he had acquired from a vigorous, outdoor life. He surveyed himself critically. He had just bathed in the icy lake nearby, and the water droplets glistened in the soft mid-morning sun. Standing there, as he felt the breeze dry him, he drank in the beauty of his surroundings. As the sun plucked the moisture from his bronzed skin, he listened attentively to the mocking birds nearby. The birds seemed unaffected by the happenings of the past few years, and sang their song so joyfully that Clark forgot for one happy moment, before memory crept stealthily back into his forcibly matured mind. Slowly he put on his ragged blue jeans, and settled down beneath an oak tree, losing himself in observation of the countryside. The ever present, ever beautiful grass marched stolidly, like long rows of soldiers.... No. Grass does not kill, it must not be compared with soldiers, ever. Yet it marched, rhythmically, in time to something.... Clark pushed the nearly blond, sun-bleached hair out of his youthful, yet hard face, and played with the sickle bladed grass. He pulled one and examined it closely. There was a ladybug on it; he maneuvered it to his finger. A half-forgotten rhyme came to his lips and bubbled into spoken verse: