Page 6 Scribulus WHY? By B.H. I sat there staring at the still white bed from which they had just taken him. Black terror was smothering, clutching, tearing at me. I tried to brush it away by thinking of the future that lay ahead of me, but he was the center and the very reason for that future. Desperately I began to think back, trying to relieve the awful apprehension. Gradually I became more composed. The white bed was replaced by mental pictures of times long past. Pictures of walks taken with him. I could see him pointing out and explaining all the little secrets of nature that delighted my child-fancy. Pictures of a big piano at which he sat and thumped out funny old tunes and funny old songs; of an old rocking chair that squeaked as he rocked in time to the tunes that he played on his battered, home-made guitar, while I sat at his feet with my head on his knee. I opened my purse and fingered a little chain that he had carved from an old piece of wood. I remembered how he had explained his every step in perfecting it. I had marveled and pretended to understand, but I was not as clever as he. I recalled the little rimes he had composed for me. Silly, or tragic, or ludicrous rimes that were of no other value than the joy they had given us. I repeated the simple yet meaningful verse he had written in my cherished Memory Book. "While in your happy school days When you feed your little band Just keep your feet upon the ground And your baton safe in your hand." Good advice, and he had always been there to help me carry it out. But that brought back that awful terror. What if he did not recover? If he died, I would be alone, for he was my only family. And if I were left alone, what could I do? I had depended on him for everything. Everything I had ever done was inspired by him. It was for him that I had studied and worked and played. His happiness was my happiness. Dr. Nillson had given him only one chance out of ten, and he wanted so to live. I loved him, yet I had to sit there without doing one thing to help him. Yes, I had to sit there while they cut him with those fearful knives. Then they wheeled his still form into the room, and I clenched my hands fiercely and tried to keep my heart from bursting. Finally, Dr. Nillson told me that if he lived twenty-four hours more, he would be all right. Twenty-four hours. But then he opened his eyes and looked at me and wrinkled his nose in that way that assured me that everything was going right for us. A tear, sweetened by new hope, rolled down my nose. He reached out and took my hand. "Hold my hand so they can't take me away," he said. He smiled and drifted into deep sleep, still clinging to my hand, as if without it he would really slip into eternity. As the minutes crawled by, I watched fearfully the faint rhythmic movement of the sheet. He was breathing hard. It seemed as if my own life depended on that movement. Finally he awoke; after three of those twenty-four hours, he awoke and smiled peacefully at me. "We've had good times together, haven't we?" He said, "Something to remember" His face twisted. He tore his hand loose from mine and clutched frantically at the bandages around his throat. The nurse seized his shoulders. He smiled as if apologetically and reached again for my hand. "Hold me," he said, "tighter tighter." But the rythmic movement stopped. My dad was dead. I had not held him tight enough. Spring Issue_ page 7 A BIT OF TAXIDERMY By John Mathieu Ruffing opened the door and walked into the house. He had been there before. He crossed the hall and entered the study. It was evening. The hands on the grandfather clock pointed to 8:30. The air inside was warm and still. Slow murmuring sounds of insects and birds floated slowly through the open window. He could hear the faint croaking of frogs in the distance. That was it, he thought. Life was too humdrum, too monotonous. In fact, that was the argument he used to take Harriet away from her husband, Doctor Hipwell. But he was weary of Harriet now. It was too bad she couldn't understand that a man of his restless disposition soon grew tired of one woman. There had been many before her and there would be many after her. The purpose of his visit in the house now was to ask the Doctor to take her back. He had a great contempt for the man whose home he had despoiled. He felt no fear in the thought of facing him. He glanced into the large mirror. Looking at him out of the mirror was a handsome face. Black hair that waved back from the high, intelligent forehead. Dark glowing eyes that were somehow sharp and penetrating. "I'm a handsome devil," he mused; "no wonder the women fall for me." His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Doctor Hipwell. The man's greeting was matter - of - fact. There was no hint of malice in his voice. "Hello," said Ruffing in his most sauve manner. "I suppose you received my letter?" The Doctor nodded. "Then we need not go over the usual conventionalities. We can come straight to the point." "Yes, I prefer that," replied the Doctor. "The situation is peculiar," Ruffing began smoothly. "Shocking, we might call it if we were conventionally minded." He lifted a hand and caressed his hair, and his forehead assumed lines of sophistication. "But since we are realists, let's face the situation as it is. Briefly: I'm tired of Harriet. She wishes to come back to you, if you will have her. You still love her, I presume?" "A man of my nature rarely loves more than once," philosophized the Doctor gravely. The contracted forehead of his listener grew smooth, leaving only faint-edged parallels across the brow. "Just as I supposed," he said eagerly. "Harriet made a mistake. She was tired of this quiet uneventful life. No reflection on you, however. It's the life itself that is at fault, not you." Ruffing paused, seeking for words, and then made as if to continue. "Why, then, hasn't she returned to me?" interrupted the Doctor curiously. "She was afraid to return. Can't you see how hard it would be for her to come back? She is sorry, Doctor, and I am sure she will return if you show her you still love her." The speaker paused and leaned back in his chair. For a moment there was silence. Then somewhere near a strange bird began a broken series of harsh notes. The Doctor looked at the tips of his fingers as his forearm lay across his knee, and slowly ran his thumb over the end of each, closing and unclosing his hand as he did so. Then he spoke. "Very well," he said slowly. "I'll take her back." Ruffing smiled. "No ill feelings, I hope?" "No, decidedly not. Nothing to speak of. You need not consider my feelings for a moment Did any one see you come in?" Ruffing became gracious. "I was careful that no one saw me." "That is fortunate, for I wish to avoid all scandal. I shall tell my friends that she was away on vacation." "A good idea." Again his brow formed into those little ditches. "I don't want it known either." "Now that's settled," smiled the Doctor, "let's have a drink." He went out and soon returned with a shaker and glasses. They drank and began to chat amiably, like a couple of traders who felt that each had driven a good bargain. It was not till he rose to go that Ruffing saw the cat. The animal was standing stiffly, just to