Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1931-07-02
1NsTALLMENT XIV.

Iily's three little boys, after
lunch, crept into the shade near
the grown-ups and lay whining,
painting and fretting ther races
flushed and wet with heat.
Drearnily, as If absently, Gal began
10 tell them a story. ,..,.
bows, Just the ages of you and Miles
and Danny. Wolfe. Their names were
Harnn1y. Jammy and Sammy-Hammy,
Jamny and Sammy Formaldenyoe--
Upon the surrounding ring OF the
guardian hills the lilac was still bloom
ing in pale blue plumes nlueJay
screamed like a bullet through tne an
and was gone. Then silence ana tne
le-ripple-ripple of the water that
accentuated the silence once more, ana
Calls slow, rich, hesitating voice De-
ginning the new chronicles OF the For
maldehydes. But no Formaloenyue
story had ever affected Gail before quite
as this one did. This was new. MS
was creation.
The hours marked change IN ner,
and she felt 1t without realizing lust
what it meant. She knew vaguely that
everything was different on this March
Sunday-the sky bluer than she had
ever known it before, the buttercups
more r1ysteriously golden, every new
leaf every crystal shadow in the dam
or flash of diamonds in the creek pen
etrated with new meaning, with I'M
earthly light. .,
Phil in his shabby, Oldest clothes;
Lily, already a little clumsy ana SLOW
Ia movement, seemed to thrill and throo
With the cosnnic pulse of the whole
great world. and, more than all-more
than sky and trees, creek water ana
blossoming Springfield felt herSeH
alive. alive with everything that lived
Gail Lawrence. nearly 26 years old:
feeling, remembering acting, loving ana
suffering, was living at last!
The miracle of it remained with her
as they went home in the later a1ter-
noon; STAYED with her. Illuminating, in
terpreting. changing all the common
place of life into glory. Gail felt dazed
with felicity; il must not stop, TINS
penetrating poignant sweetness. she
knew it would not stop.
She went through a week OF hoat-
ing, of dreaming
And then, week after the picnic,
came a Sunday of deluge when PM
and Lily went to movie and Gan look
the three little boys for wet walk.
The elder two came back contentedly
enough to blocks and crayons, but little
Danny was almost too tired for lunch
con and quite too tired to play, and at
3 o'clock Gail sponged his sticky little
face and put him down on her bed
with her old woolly dog for a nap.
In the hall she called down to the
sitting room, wolfe! Everything all
right?" .u.s ,ooh
.'1'm building these kids a cattle
barn."
Gail went back into her room, On
tn. desk lay a heap of paper, large
sheets, and a fountain pen. She sat
down, dreamy eyes fixed on space, the
pens smooth butt pressed against her
cheek.
Il don't know why shouldn't write
stories" she unused, half aloud. i've
read enough!
EIDE, wouldn't it be funny if were
really to be writer some day?
Ito the dear memory of my sister,
Edith Partington Lawrence
The pen touched the paper; began to
move.
Danny slept deeply, luxuriously, in
the center of the big bed, an old woolly
dog tightly clasped to his shabby little
underwaist. Rain streamed steadily
down the high windows and drummed
After while Gail threw covered
sheet aside, numbered a second, covered
that She pushed back her hair; her
face was pale, her eyes shining. The
scratching Of the pen recommended
The clock struck struck again. Danny
slept on and the rain continued to fall.
The loss Of Ariel, the deeper blow OF
Dicks loss, Phils marriage had been
earthquake. the unbearable last burden
after the burdened years. And beyond
that had been the consuming flame OF
Ediths going, the unthiakable thing,
the loss Of something that was herself,
that was her own life. The earthquake
and the fire And now into Calls heart
comfort came creeping back, new inter-
est. new hope.
Thus began the new life, in the I'M
changed setting of the old. Gail did not
know whether what she dreamed and
what she wrote was good or was not
coed, nor did she care. 1t had to come
and the coming was sort OF ecstatlc-
bearing giving of life.
In April she had the letter-a dozen
typewriter lines:
Dear Miss Lawrence:
The readers report that this story is
not quite in our tone. But the feeling
of the Balantic is that when tale is
as intimately true to life as this is of
yours the tone is surely one for the
Balantic to adopt.
It gives us much pleasure to accept
20 admirable story.
Very truly yours, The Editor.
The dull old griny kitchen swooped
and scared about her. She had been
hulling Strawberries, putting every
twelfth one into Dannys eXpectant
mouth open al her knee. The letter