The Weber Literary Journal The Deserted Attic By Josephine Rhees TODAY I wander back to the home of my childhood. I mount the stairs to the old garret and I gaze at the bare plastered walls, crumbling and dusty. Part of the ceiling now reveals the lath and tiny streaks of light peeping in between the shingles on the roof. Cobwebs hang in long strings from ceiling to window sill or floor. A feeling of cold loneliness pervades the whole. I draw the board from the little window and allow the sunlight to come in. The scene is now as it was years ago when my little friend and I lived in aircastles there together hour after hour until mother would bring us back to the present by a sharp call from the foot of the stairs. The fire needed some chips from the woodpile or a message had to be carried to grandma's. But now there comes no voice from the foot of the stairs and I am free to sink down on a heap of rubbish and view the scene that used to be. There in the corner is a home-made doll's bed, now sparsely equipped with quilts and pillows. Partially lying on it's face as if in a fit of anger is Flora Dora, displaying the sad loss of a leg and arm. Over her, on the wall is the famous cupboard or plate rack, consisting of two strings of gigantic spools about a foot apart with shingles placed crosswise to form shelves. Even now the beautiful shell paperweight and bronze jug adorn the top shelf, and beneath, a faded paper Easter basket still supports a dirty white rabbit once engaged in devouring a carrot but now only holding up its feet as if requesting fresh food. On the opposite wall is a gorgeous red velvet banner with a peacock spreading his exquisitely embroidered tail. But the once much admired remnant of olden days looks as though winter had just arrived, for white-wash has powdered and fallen on the peacock's tail and back. The brilliant chain that held the banner on the nail has turned black and the fringe across the bottom is matted and dull. Near me is the little black tin harp that has been handed down in the family for generations. The strings no longer send forth the sweet tones that used to make me long to thrum and thrum on them. Or 18 The Weber Literary Journal else it is that my skilled musicians and up-to-date harps have killed the appreciation of this antiquated instrument of my childhood. If my soul could but respond just once to the voice of that relic of the ages! How many attic circus parades, how many funerals and weddings have been led with that pitiful bit of trumpery. That was before brother died I didn't touch it after. As I turn away, I perceive the key hanging to the little old trunk in the corner. Turning the lock, I raise the lid and am reminded of the ecstacy that went with this act on those very rare occasions when mother would consent to my having one peep into this greatest wonder of the attic. On the top is an old scroll bearing highly colored pictures of Bible scenes; Samson pushing the pillars of the temple apart, Daniel in the lions' den, and dozens of others. I lift out the till and there is the much coveted real silk handkerchief from Japan. If I could only have made that mine years ago I should have been as proud as the peacock on the wall. Did mother, I wonder, expect me to prize it more when I grew up? In a little box I find a pressed rose. "Just one your father gave me," mother had said when one day I had asked why she kept that old dried thing in such a magic trunk. I believe I understand, now, Mother. In the same little box is great-great-grandmother's thimble, a lock of curly hair and some tintypes-a few precious relics of loved ones gone. I put down the box and turn to the trunk again. There in the bottom is the quaint old dress with lace and puffs and fol-de-rols that mother used to wear when a girl. It is all much as it used to be but for the repulsive odor of moth-balls and the realization that the much-hoped-for occasion of seeing the inside of the trunk, as often as I wished, has at last arrived. Queer that so much of the charm has gone. After closing down the lid I saunter into the adjacent room. Stacks of musty books and magazines are everywhere. At the farther side is the queer bin that used to serve as storeroom for treasures, beet-seed in the drawers at the bottom, but rags, all kinds of them, in the top. Indeed, the rags are there yet. Well, I recall what a place of refuge that bin once seemed to me. It was one summer afternoon when my little girl friend and I were left home alone while mother and father went away to the city. We had played in the garden for hours and were beginning to feel just a little tired and lonesome, as children will when their interest in play begins to wane. Suddenly we heard a slow plod 19