EYES (Continued from page 3) Quickly, he throws his hands up to his eyes. The heels of his palms push forcefully against them. More fiercely and more fiercely he presses his palms into his eyes. "Good God!!" he whispers. Fingers are grasping at the bloody bayonet. It is a tight grasp. The fingers are slowly cut. The man shakes his head as if in terrible pain. "Good God!" he says hoarsely. He closes his eyes and opens them with a start. The beam and the rope dance before him; they beckon. A cold sweat breaks out on his face. Johnson is frightened. He puts on the lights in the wall brackets. There are four lights in the center of the room, all burning. It is not enough. He screams, "Lights! Bring me more candles!" He lights more, but they are not enough. He goes to his luggage and finds the flashlight; he turns it on. There are lights in all parts of the room. Some nicker and some are steady. They are eyes! They look deeply into his. Outside, in the night, the eyes are overhead. The big moon lights up the fields. There are heads with eyes out in the fields. The wheat waves in the pale yellow light of the moon. The stars stare remorselessly. They are pointing . . . pointing toward the rope and the beams. In a mad frenzy, Johnson attacks the lights. Outside are the commanding stars and the moon which looks brightly into the room. He pulls down the window shades. Ah! That is much better. But the dark is mysterious. Perhaps the eyes are hiding in the dark ready to spring at him. Yes! He sees little flames, like eyes. He is imagining them, but doesn't know it. Johnson is worried. He is frantic. He bursts out of his room and startles the farmer and his family. In the dimness of the light he looks like a dead man's ghost that can still walk. His face is twisted and pale. He looks behind him and runs faster. The eyes are behind him. Faster! Faster! He runs. He falls. He hugs the sweet moist earth with clawing fingers. But the eyes still see him. He gets up and runs away from the bright night. He goes into the barn. The rope hangs from the beam. It beckons him compellingly. Johnson sighs with relief. He gasps, "Yes! Yes!" It is the mere breath of a voice. He looks behind. Eyes! Eyes! The eyes are coming behind him! Why do you kill me? The rope and the beam beckon. They beckon again and again. Soon the eyes disappear . . . They are no more . . . Johnson is smiling. . . . "He lunges forward, driving the bayonet in the boy's belly." Page Twenty Shadow of the Puritan (Continued from page 8) "Let me explain," said he as we walked towards a long low building, "that there are just one hundred people in the village. Every one has a certain job that he must do." "You do not mean that this place is self-sustained, do you?" I inquired. "Yes, that is what I mean. Here is the dining room." He pushed the door wide so that we could enter. It reminded me of an army camp's dining room with its rows of crude, wooden tables and built-in benches. "Everyone eats here, the men first and the women and children last. The kitchen is across the courtyard. People are working there; so you may see what they are like." We strode across the yard dodging flocks of noisy geese. When I saw the people, I thought I must have been transported by a time machine to the Puritan's day. All of the women dressed alike, and all of the men dressed alike tiny babies as well as grand-parents. The dresses were gathered black skirts that touched the ankle. White collars were the only trimmings. Drawn tightly over their heads were black kerchiefs with white polka-dots. High laced shoes and heavy woolen stockings smothered their feet. The men were Miles Standish himself with buckled shoes, knee breeches, and large hats. They could have joined the House of David team if long hair and beards were the only entrance prerequisites. In the kitchen were gigantic ovens, stoves, and cupboards; and outside the door was a cellar from which a mixture of gustatory odors escaped. I hoped we could go down there, and I was not disappointed. It was a hole dug into the side of a hill. Inside, hams were hanging along the walls. Barrels of honey, dried fruits, vegetables, grains, and cakes of all sorts crowded the room. All of this food had been taken from their own crops and preserved or dried for the coming winter. The blacksmith must have been a very intelligent man. He had made all of the stoves, machinery, and cooking utensils. I admired him more than any other villager, although they were all more industrious than ants. After we saw the laundry, one of the native girls volunteered to take us three ladies to see her bedroom. We entered a long, two-story house which consisted of several bedrooms. We climbed up a ladder through a hole in the ceiling of the first floor. The room that greeted us was clean, but crude. On either side of the entrance was a bed piled high with goose-feather mattresses. I thought of the hundreds of geese that suffered martyrdom for the cause. In her broken English the girl explained that the ladies of the family slept in one bed and the men slept in the other. Two spinning wheels stood in a corner. When I asked the girl why there were two of the machines, she said that on her fourteenth birthday every girl received one, and from then on, she must do her share of the spinning for the colony. As this girl had recently turned fourteen, the newer one was hers. The discussion of spinning wheels led to the discussion of other customs. I asked her about their marriage and found that when a girl is eighteen, she chooses the man she wishes to marry. There is no courtship, and in many cases, the couple have not spoken to each other before. If there is no one in the colony who is eligible to marry the one who is of age, he is sent to another branch of the Mennonites, or else several people are sent out to begin a new colony. Mennonite custom seems to fix personalities while they are still very young, for after descending from the room, I noticed a tiny girl dressed like a miniature lady. She sat on a three-legged stool with her hands folded. I stooped down to speak to her; I even chucked her gently under the chin; but she would not even smile. Then it struck me that no one had smiled or laughed while we were there. No one spoke above a whisper. When we met our guide again, I remarked about my discovery. "No one ever smiles. Nor do they believe in recreation. There are no musical instruments not even a whistle. There are no theaters, dance halls, cafes, pool halls, or resorts. The Mennonites are extremely religious. Every evening they go to church. "Many years ago in the winter, a group of tourists like you folks happened to come to the village. Seeing the pond over yonder frozen, and realizing its recreational potentialities, they returned to Cardston and bought several pairs of ice skates. "Returning to the Mennonites, they distributed the skates among some of the children. Of course, the children were overjoyed, and they raced to the pond to try to use them as the tourists had instructed. "For some time the children played with the strange toys. When the priest of the village church, who was also the leader of the group, heard of the incident, he rushed to the pond and snatched the skates off the children. He marched with them straight to the blacksmith's shop and ordered them melted immediately. "Two boys, anticipating the priest's coming, pushed their skates into a hay stack, but someone revealed their secret. Unable to find the skates after a few minutes of searching, the dauntless priest drew a hand-made match from his pocket, lit it, and touched it to the hay. Later, among the ashes, four skates took form. These, too, were given to the blacksmith." This tale astounded us. Marcia had a question. "We have seen people working in many types of occupations, but we have seen no soldiers nor doctors. Where are they? "There are none. The people do not believe in fighting, even for self-defense; and they consider a doctor an unnecessary luxury. They believe that if they are ill, God wills it so, and He will choose whether they shall get well or die. On a few occasions, however, I have persuaded them to get a doctor from Cardston; but they would not have done it if it had not been simply to please me. Do you see that little fellow with his face bandaged?" the teacher asked. Our eyes followed his pointing finger. "He was kicked in the face several months ago by a horse. The people were not very concerned about him; but when infection set in and the boy could not come to school, I investigated the case. Although his parents did not approve, I sent to Cardston for a doctor. For weeks he had to tend to the child. In spite of the doctor's skill, the boy's face (Continued on page 24) Page Twenty-one