That day along the blackening boughs The yellow leaves burned like a fever I shall remember your quiet face, And sun on the river. Only the hushed complaining of water Against a stone flawed the clear weather; It was enough to have autumn, And be together. By Joan Allred Benedict Story Book Autumn I want my story to come alive and be nourished on the harvest of a peaceful world. By Carol Jean Vendell There were high clouds, subtly shaded from gray to white, with only one small knothole of blue sky. Wind puffs hurried over the dead brown mold . . . the trees clung to a handful of yellow leaves ... a faint piquancy brushed my nostrils. Except for the wind and the flat, insignificant slap of my footsteps, it was quiet. I have seen Autumn before. I have known the sharpness of its winds, the shimmer of its afternoon skies, the crunch of its leaves. And I shall know it again. For as I walked, something of the energy that was receding from the day spilled down through me and centered itself in my clenched fists. And I am selfish. "Tomorrow" is the one word which I have held in my hand as comfort. And now my tomorrow dangles on the watch chains of politicians who have seen Autumn come and go many more years than I. There is no shame covering my selfishness. It stands alone . . . calculating . . . solicitous. It watches their arguments, weighs their decisions in the stark vocabulary of what they are doing to me. For I am seventeen and have not yet discovered all of Autumn's wonder. It is still almost a season from a story book ... a picture . . . and I look on breathless for I have been told that I have the promise of tomorrow. These men . . . these men who frown thoughtfully over my fate . . . have thumbed through books similar to mine many times. They know them well. Their books are not shiny and new like mine. Their pages reflect the color of time . . . with corners bent and torn. Though they have not told me so, I can guess the price they would pay to exchange their books for mine . . . but they cannot. They must sit now and ponder about peace, while many Autumns are tucked securely back in the padded folds of their memories. In the easiness of their knowledge that it is not their own story which they must frame, there lies the danger of shrugging shoulders when the arguments seem insurmountable. But . . . somehow . . . this must not happen . . . they must not glorify death in the casting of my future. Though the wind was not cold, I shuddered with a pang of fear. Please do not let it be I . . . it must not be I . . . who will live an existence that burns the imagination and capacity for happiness completely out of my body. I want my story to come alive and be nourished on the harvest of a peaceful world. Page Three