DAVE by Thair Leavitt DAVE could not remember when Bradford had looked any different, and Dave was seven. This rocky cup to which he came gave him a fine view. It stood behind and a little above the town, a single point of stone that rose suprisingly out of the soft earth of the hill. In the morning this shallow dish of rock caught and held the heat of the sun. As he lay watching the comings and goings of the village folk, he could feel the captive warmth flowing over him in little gusts, while the rocky surface was cool to his body from the cold stored up through the night before. Then in the afternoon when the over-handing ledge made the place chill with shade, the rocks gave back the warmth of noonday. This strange experience of being at once hot and cold puzzled Dave. He lay there thinking of it and wondering, but the parable of the rocks was lost upon him. The years were not yet his in which this physical experience of blowing hot and cold was to be reflected in those whom he learned to love, bringing pain. He liked to come here. There was something about this outjutting rock that satisfied his desire for height; the climb was not fatiguing for a boy who was seven, and here another need was met. He could be alone, yet with the comforting sense that there were people near as he watched the roofs of the town. Now, looking down at the familiar scene, Dave could not remember when Bradford had looked any different. The streets of sand that were burning miniature Saharas to his bare feet in summer oozed mud when melting snow foretold of Spring, but they led always to the familiar places that he knew. He might follow any one of them there were not many and know that this corner, or the next would find a street that would take him home. They were friendly streets that held no confusion for him, only ruts that wagons from neighboring farms had etched indelibly in the earth. DRUM TO NO PACING (Continued from page 5) you died in the stretch when the going got tough you faded you threw in the towel a nice yellow towel you couldn't take it alone you called her folks you let 'em know You let 'em know all right maybe too late maybe too late maybe . . . And it beats in your brain at a hundred and eighty when the doors of the white room open too late too late late late late White in the room white on a rubber-tired stretcher no white young face above the white and white white white in your brain with a white drum shouting the message the message the guy who phoned her folks brings back with a white drum beating don't let them don't let them wait wait she can't stand ether, can't stand ether they tried it before, tried it before she doesn't know, doesn't know . . . No only a white drum knows drum knows drum knows . . . Somewhere a clock with a robot rhythm somewhere a beat with a slow slow stick somewhere a march in funeral rhythm to no pacing at all like a drum like a drum like a drum to no pacing You have no reason or will to pace with her white face covered with white and her white face gone because you needn't worry her folks ha ha you wouldn't worry her folks ha ha Christ! You didnt know either! Fourteen JOHNSON Fifteen