home lawn and sank in Crystal Lake. -NEW YORK TIMES It was more like a dream than an ending, the lawn chairs adrift on the grass, the elm trees parting politely so that ladies kept waiting might pass before Bartlett returns from the pantry where he's won some affection at last. They enter the lake without Bartlett, and settle down in the sand; the windows are closed, except Bartlett's, the handle comes off in the hand; and Bartlett goes right on romancing, knowing that they'll understand. They sit as they sat as they waited for Bartlett in fine livery who's taking them all Sunday driving and bringing them back for tea, but Bartlett has conquered some virtue and lingers inside wistfully. And now though he's diving to find them, and even holds open the door, there is little to say of his sorrow as he floats them each back to the shore where the others have come to verandas to see the five ladies once more. We'd hitch out from town, over the bridge and across the island's baking dust to the dockside tavern where we'd see, through rusted screens, the same lost men bent at the bar, their day's ration of coins spilled before them. They'd watch us strip to our trunks on the pier, plastered with no-swimming signs, cursing our miserable youth to themselves, treading their way toward dusk, a swallow at a time. A riverboat of sorts was marooned there, a hideout for rats, but we'd take