IMPRESSIONS Marjorie Farr I WATERFALL The falls remind me mentally of myself going along smoothy, like glass only more easy, then going off an edge and sinking through space, not in one piece nor yet gruesomely shattered but delicately separated like the spray from a nozzle on the hose in the summer. Then all of a sudden at the bottom a merging again not in an easy way but literally smashing against one another and through one another in a great rushing mass all white like beat up egg white, only not so rigid but moving in a dizzy rocking motion as if it were living. It makes one feel as the water must feel if it had nerves and brain. First it would feel all peaceful inside and slick, then nothing at all, just void and blank, then turbulent and unceasingly full of commotion and all mixed up. II THE DAY Dawn is cool, crisp and crackly. When I am lying in bed under warm covers the patter of cottonwood buds is music on the roof. The wind in the trees makes the swish, swish of a thousand leaves. Midmorning is a great hot, hollow solitude. Midafternoon is like the pin on a lapel. It may be changed so easily each day. It is the accent to each day. One day it was a green, smooth pin with one black line waving across it. It was spent lying in the tall grass on quilts reading books, playing records, eating popcorn and drinking coca cola. Another day it Was a yellow pin covered with jewels. That was the day we had the water fight. It was on a Sunday and several people had come up. Then comes evening. It is a nubbly reticulated affair like the shell of a tortoise. Nothing is very outstanding or exciting. Memory of it just leaves a mottled effect. . . . AND DANCE (Continued from preceding page) "Would you like to come swimming again tonight? There are three boys up from Salt Lake in cabin eight. They want to go swimming and have a party on the beach. I thought you might like to come." He had seen them when they came in, "three boys from Salt Lake." Flashy sport clothes and chromium-plated convertible. Round, boys' faces and tired eyes. Rolls of bills and loud talk. Raw whiskey and red wine in the dashboard compartment. New pipes and limp cigarettes. Raucous laughter and the knowing leer. "No, I don't think I'd like to come," he said, then added hastily, "I'm sorry." She laughed her deep contralto laugh, "What's the matter, afraid?" "I guess so. No, that isn't it," he stammered in confusion. "Anyway, no thanks." He stood up, stretched, and dived into the water. She passed him again on the way back to the dock. He swam with all his energy, futiley stirring the water, exhausting himself uselessly. He paused on the dock to hurl a pebble at the wheeling gulls. * * * The boy read spasmodically, pausing for long intervals, frequently rereading passages with determined air only to falter and stop and raise his head to scowl. Lowering his head, he scanned the page for the third time, mumbling words disjointedly. With a muttered curse he flung the book into the far corner of the room and heaved himself upright. Walking to the door, he peered down the beach. Faintly in the distance there were mirth and music from a portable radio. Open firelight reflected from pine trees; moonlight on the lake. A boy and a girl silhouetted against the orange glow, dancing barefooted on a blanket to the music of a band far away. The music stopped; the figures disappeared from the firelight. On the night air a contralto laugh drifted up to him like the magic of a half-forgotten memory. Straightening his shoulders, he howled an anguished curse. The door slammed; he walked to the corner and scuffed the book with his toe. It skittered down the floor, leaving a trail of loose pages. He threw himself on his cot, his face buried in his arms. As the wind shifted, the melody came to him again. He cocked his head and listened to the swelling volume. Again the wind veered. Elusively the melody faded away, leaving only a rhythm in the darkness. sixteen Bonnie Wilmot STILL FISHING seventeen