The Weber Literary Journal of footsteps up the path. It couldn't be "the folks" returning so soon, we well knew, so darting behind the hedge out of sight we waited the person's arrival. Presently the steps came closer, and we peered through the hedge near the house to see who it could be. In a moment, a woman dressed in brilliantly dyed rags, grimy with dirt, came in sight. On her arm was a huge basket, big enough, Dora whispered, "to carry off a little girl in." She turned slightly, as she neared the gate, revealing her face. It was very dark with black hair hanging in strings around it. We were seized with a freezing fear. Our visitor was none other than a gypsy beggar. The one impulse was to flee, and we rushed into the house and up the stairs. We hadn't locked a door and were too frightened to go back down to do it; consequently we resolved to hide. Dora thought of the big bin and we made a dash for it. Frantically we jumped and boosted while the loud knocks below became more and more insistent. At last Dora grabbed a shaky chair, dumped off the old lamp, and brought the chair to the chest. In we jumped, one after the other, and covered the old rags over us leaving only a little hole through which to breath. The knocking soon stopped, but was followed by mysterious moving about. In our imagination we could hear this brown-skinned woman ascending the stairs. Terrified we waited. After a while, however, the sound of footsteps across the porch told us that the gypsy had gone. We stayed for a few minutes longer, then ventured out of our place of concealment. Smiling, I closed the bin. So all these vagaries pass away childhood terrors, pleasures, and friends. I shut the door and slowly descend the stairs, sad that I cannot be a child again. But all things must in their time pass some day even memories. 20 The Weber Literary Journal Spring and Women By Orba Jorgensen ELL, I'm durn well glad March is nearly gone," remarked young Farmer Jones as his wife brought in the pie. A moment's silence followed as Mrs. Jones set the pie on the table. She knew her husband; he wanted an argument. "Well, why?" Short speeches always brought her victory in the end. Farmer Jones was acquainted with the fact and planned his speeches accordingly. "Because March is a blamed old woman." Mrs. Jones had her rebuttal ready she could make him give all his points before she began. "Why say, always, that everything you don't like is a woman? No gentleman would do that." "Now, June, you know I'm a gentleman. But March is a woman." "How so?" "Well, isn't she always changing her mind?" "'A wise man changeth his mind often. A fool-'" Mr. Jones wished to ignore the proverb, therefore he spoke quickly. "March doesn't know what she wants to do herself. She lets the sun shine just enough to set our hearts singing, 'Spring is here;' then, dingbust it, if she doesn't let Old Man Winter come back to life again. Just when we are satisfied that the Old Man has surely kicked the bucket, blamed if she doesn't nurse him back and coax him for another inch of snow. Then she chases him off with her South Wind and lets the snowdrops peek through the ground. That's when she fools us most. We go skipping out convinced that she's decided to usher Spring in when, boom, she turns Mr. North Wind loose to dog us back to the fire. "Blamed old, cross, changeable woman! I wish she'd soon make up her mind. It isn't safe to be out when she gets cross. She's just as apt to blow a tree on your head as she is to fan you with a soft warm breeze. She's just as apt to entice you out with her sunbeams and then turn a snow storm on you as she is to make you sneak out in a 21