The daily monitor leader. [volume] (Mount Clemens, Mich.) 1942-19??, 1942-11-30

gazed eagerly at his long. rich
fields that stretched all moist
and quiet toward the village -
narrow and black, with the bed
rock of the mountains at arms
length under the sod. AT last"
he thought. THANK God, at
last"
Far down the brown dirt road,
and beyond a line of birches, he
could just make out the white
church with its thin spire gilt
tering in the early light. Near it,
the brown, gabled schoolhouse
lay in shadow. The trees still
slept, and the hedges that lined
the road, green and yellow
patched with the dying sum-
mer. Beyond the square where
the church was, the fisher hous-
es, with their low-hanging caves
and small blue shutters, lay
quiet on the rim of the clear
ford. Now will come the great
days." he thought, and the feel
ing spread over him that all the
events of his life since he had
been a boy had conspired to
make him a man fit for this
hour.
you had better Co." he said
at last. turning. IF the com.
mandant comes out this far with
his squad :"
II know" The doctor stood
up YEARLY. I'VE have to be more
careful than ever. I'll talk to
Gunnar Brogge in town."
"Brogge. Yes, he's the man."
They heard the first faint bu-
gle notes from far up the hill
where the German troops were
quartered, and stopped to lis
ten. Knut Osterholm's face was
gray and tired, and yet possess
ed at that moment of such fierce
turbulence, such resolution of
spirit that the doctor felt new
admiration for him. "One must
never judge these farmer folk
too quickly" he thought. They
are more than philosophers"
1--WE fight, Knut," he said. 1T
will be very dangerous, but at
last we fight" The bugle call
died away. The sun hit the win
dow and spilled in over the gra-
nary floor.
The doctor was dapper, mid
dle-aged man who always gave
the impression of having just
been shaved and powdered. He
stepped out so heartily on his
short legs, and peppered the lit
IT, stones in the road so briskly
with his stick that anyone who
met him would have thought
him young David roaring out
to kill a dozen Philistines before
breakfast. Despite the early
hour, he was, as usual, immacu-
late in Oxford tweeds, and very
important for he Martin Stems
gard was a doctor of medicine
from Oslo, and mayor of Troll
ness as we'll. He had a son whom
he never mentioned, and a
daughter he thought the most
wonderful in Norway, for she
was his daughter. His quiet wisp
of wife knew him better than
anyone else in the world, and
she was afraid of him.
He passed the white houses
with their gardens, and the sun
glinting in the little windows.
To his left, the sea. To his right,
the mountains, their gorges
rough with pine, Numbered
abruptly upward. Once, as he
had done every morning for
months, he stopped quickly and
picked a small, white flower to
put in his buttonhole in memory
of the king. Ever since the COM
had forbidden it, many
of the villagers made point of
remembering.
AS he got farther into town he
saw the women out sweeping
their walks. Rough, hip-booted
fishermen in corduroys and dark
shirts were finishing their early
work at the flowerbeds,
or striding hurriedly down
toward the dock. They were big
men, tanned, and sea-salted,
with blunt gnarled hands, knife
SCARED a dozen times over. Fish
and salt sea hung in the air be-
tween the house fronts and the
of the little shops in
the center of the village, crept
over the old wharf where the
boats were riding alongside the
dark, wet, wooden piling, and
lay reeking on the blood-and
scale-stained dock in front Of
the warehouse, where every
night the days catch was sailed