edge of the trough raising it high above shoulder level to persuade his obdurate friend. When he lowered it again old Churn lay prostrate on the ground before him dead. The blunt edge of the axe, to the good fortune of the lad, had left no outward mark on the horse's forehead. Old Churn had merely dropped dead, possibly from a combination of too much water and work, or simply from old age. Or so ran the explanation. While greatly distraught, the father had no apparent basis to further question his son. Thus it appeared that the boy's lie was to be buried with the horse, which received an ignoble burial in the potato patch. Winter came and spread its dark and gloomy aura of death over nature and man. The natural elements wrought their change. These ageless forces of dissolution and decay at work in the outer world somehow mirrored the internal disruptive forces that ate away at the soul of the boy. Nature and soul were one in him, united in a somber, destructive mood without healing influence. Indeed, the winter did not pass without a rekindling of that same anger which had ended in the death of old Churn. Often, but in less brutal fashion, his uncontrolled anger had been unleashed on things loved, the memories of which he sought to force from his mind. How long he could stave them off was but a question of time. While nature temporarily cast its protective frost over the earth to prevent man's tampering and possibly exposing the lie, a veil of self-imposed forgetting likewise obscured the damning past from his view. Spring, then summer came and passed. The potato patch lay fallow. The secret, it seemed, remained safely buried. It was in the following spring that father and son moved again into the field. The earth was coming alive, the fertile soil dotted with new volunteer seedlings which had sprung up from the fallow ground. The potato patch yielded, slowly but willingly, to the plow, each new furrow attesting to its renewed strength. As the morning slipped away, the man and boy could occasionally be seen resting from their work. It was with difficulty that the boy kept thoughts of the past from his mind. Each newly turned furrow, or clump of new grass subtly evoked unwanted memories. Nature seemed mercilessly bent on exposing the hidden. The boy's conscience, of course, had long been scarred over. Time and forgetfulness had put some distance between him and the past. But, however deep the death of old Churn lay buried in the dark recess of his mind, anger had had its way of tearing anew at those deep furrows of guilt. And, Nature, in its vindictiveness, worked in subtle nuances to disclose the boy's inward guilt. For as the two sat resting, a small cluster of wild oats caught the boy's attention. Its presence was made all the more conspicuous by the absence of any other plant life close about. Memories of the past winter crept in an argument with his sister. Damn those weeds! He recalled how in angry frustration he had torn from her grasp an old, but very much loved, rag doll whose innards consisted of a few handfuls of wheat kernels, and had secretly buried it in the flower bed next to the porch. As fate or nature would have it, however, the wheat had germinated, refusing to keep his secret. He could still see his father, spade in hand, surveying the decayed remnants of the old rag doll and the green shoots of wheat which, like so much guilt, had sprouted from its dark innards into the warm sunshine for all to see. This apparently accidental association which had elicited anew the memory of the past guilt was, however, far more omnious. As morning slipped into mid-day, the father and son paused again to rest, the boy sprawling out upon the newly plowed soil, his hat pulled low to ward off the direct rays of the sun, the father resting against the still upright plow. More from habit than anything else, the farmer let a handful of soil filter through his fingers to the ground, his practiced eye measuring its richness. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, his eye caught an object partially turned up to the sun. Quick strokes unearthed the object, exposing it to the light. Nature had wrought its change, yet preserved the evidence, for clearly outlined in jagged edges was the rough, but unmistakably rectangular imprint left by the axe in the skull-old Churn's skull. Earth's moisture, like the horse's life, had ebbed quickly under the searing afternoon sun, leaving its bony features to bleach and pale before the unbelieving eyes of the father. "Little wonder," he muttered, as the skull slipped from his knowing hands. Aroused from half slumber by the father's words, the boy stared in convicted silence at the skull, now fallen from his father's grasp. Its jagged edges tore away the scars from time and forgetting, to etch anew his guilt. Nature in her vindictiveness had hidden and preserved her secret through the seasons. Now, like a boulder turned into the sun, she had cast from her bosom proof to vindicate her four-footed friend, whose life had not merely expired from him, but had been taken. Even in death the old horse had testified. If man and boy had chosen to cast a backward glance as they walked away they might have seen the smile that crept across the boney features of the old horse's skull, a smile of retribution and contentment. And it is surprising, too, that they did not perceive that final neigh which passed through those hollow bones. Had they but turned back they could have seen the skull crumble into the dust from whence it came, mingling itself with the earth which had once protected it. Thus do the mortals pass into oblivion but leave their truths, eternally etched in the deep folds of the mind. But even as I tell this story, I know a horse's skull can't speak; and even if it could who would believe it! 6 A CORPSMAN A CORPSMAN A CORPSMAN A CORPSMAN A CORPSMAN By JACKIE L. CRAWSHAW Job Corpsmen are ex-penny pitchers, dope pushers, and dropouts. They are the searching, futureless young men of the country. Every community has potential corpsmen,- every facet of society could produce these young men. But why are they produced? Because of certain deficiencies in their environment like love, par-entral care, proper diet, and teachers who are more concerned with self-esteem than education. So, these young men have retired from the school rolls only to appear on unemployment rosters, then in welfare lines when they find that unskilled laborers are in oversupply. when they find that unskilled laborers are in oversupply. These are the men sought by Job Corps recruiters. The recruiters offer the drifters a vocation, the possibility of a high school diploma, and $60.00 a month in hard folding-type cash. They also offer a place to stay, clothes to wear, and regular meals. This life sounds inviting to a young man after the thrill of joy riding has ended and pennies are counted rather than pitched. It sounds better than standing in welfare lines for the rest of their lives. Once again they have a chance to make something of themselves. Job Corps is where I met Clifton. His friends call him Moose; it is appropriate. He is huge for only seventeen summers, but those summers have made him wiser in the ways of the world than most septuagenarians. Unlike most young men of seventeen, he is unassuming in his superiority, yet, like most corpsmen, he is lacking in self-confidence and self-pride. These deficiencies are especially noticeable in the classroom. The non-traditional classroom atmosphere of Job Corps lends itself to unusual situations. I first remember noticing Clifton as an individual when I awakened him. The sleep was not really that of a weary young man, but more like a stupor from glue sniffing. He shook his wool-covered head several times as if to jar the pieces of the computer into operation. He looked at me sheepishly and with a little embarrassment after his licorice-colored eyes had rolled uncontrollably around in their sockets for an instant. "Gee, Miss Crawshaw, I'm sorry I fell asleep. We had a knife fight in the dorm last night that kept us all up talkin' to counselors 'till three this mo'nin'," he drawled. "Ax my counselor. He's a pretty good dude and he'll tell ya what went on." "That's O.K., Mr. Webster. I believe you and I won't have to ASK your counselor," I said, deliberately emphasizing the "ask". Many teachers at Job Corps call the 7