Flood by David Shurtleff SKETCHY patches of clouds, tinted delicately by the afterglow from the setting sun, were scattered promiscuously across the western horizon. The dark ragged outlines of the huge trees on the crest of the hill were silhouetted against the evening sky. Far to the north an unhewn piller of smoke stood lazily forth against the darker background of receding storm clouds, tinted on the trailing edges with jutting fingers of color. There was the smell of freshness, of rain-cleared air, and the feeling that there was life everywhere about to spring into being. Large drops of rain, reflecting the silvery glow of evening, clung to leaves and branches of trees and shrubs. Here and there in the windows of the houses lights feebly battled the coming darkness. I turned my attention from the outlines and queer, fantastic figures created by the retiring sun. I gazed upon the little town, strewn with wreckage by the events of the day. Water, which ten minutes earlier had been seven feet deep at the height of the flood, stood in pools on the pavement and in the streets. The gutters still ran full of yellow, muddy water which continually spread expanding and receding promontories into the street. Broken branches and leaves, rusty tin cans, splintered lumber with jagged, fresh edges protruding from the mud, and scattered remnants of clothing created a fantastic picture in the silvery glow from the western sky. Fierce, rolling black clouds had met us an hour earlier. Swooping low over the hills, they descended like an all-embracing shadow. Great jets of mist threaded here and there among the roof tops and trees, as a crashing deluge innundated the town. Rapidly, the gutters filled and overflowed into the streets, spreading finally to the lawns and door steps. The automobile in which we were riding was forced into a light pole by the force of the water surging along the boulevard. As the water rose higher and higher, we crawled out of the window of the car, and, breasting the current, we fought our way to the sidewalk where a group of men were frantically raising a sand-bag levee in front of a large show window of one of the stores. We crawled over the levee, the current clutching and tearing at our legs as we attempted to swing them over the barrier. Grabbing sandbags, we helped the other men throw them into place in an effort to keep the flood from pouring over them. The torrent piled deeper and deeper. The levee tapered off near the top. Then the pressure of the water became too great for the fragile structure, and a section of the levee caved in. Instantly a frothing wall of water burst upon us, hurling us against the wall with a Herculean thrust. The plate glass window crumpled before the onslaught, and with a triumphant roar the roily water surged through the store. The force of the current carried us into the interior through the breach in the plate glass window. Choking, mud-covered and water-soaked, we struggled into a staircase which led to the second floor from which, shivering and trembling, we watched the flood whirl on its hectic way. Down the street, we could see the rampaging torrent working havoc among the other buildings. A few frantic storekeepers were still trying to salvage some of their belongings from the vicious, crushing hand of the deluge. An old frame building shifted suddenly from its foundation, then lazily collapsed before the onslaught, the timbers being whisked away with violent carelessness. The broken, tossing surface of the water was streaked with tree branches, broken boards, tubs, cans, and practically every article imaginable. Automobiles parked against the curb were overturned and carried with the flood, fenders torn and dented by crazily swirling timbers and tree limbs, their tops crushed and the glass shattered from their windows as they rolled over and over. The west wall of the ancient brick city and county building crumbled silently into the roaring current. Fearfully we gazed upon the destruction, afraid that the building we were in would collapse. Then, before our very eyes, the rain ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The clouds sluggishly lifted and moved to the north where they gradually receded from sight. We left our point of vantage, and, crossing the littered street floor, went out onto the sidewalk. Our car was jammed sideways against the light pole, the finish covered with a thin filament of clay streaked with black sediment. Gaping show windows testified to the force of the current. Electric light and telephone wires were twisted heedlessly in the streets, intertwining snarled masses. Great blocks of sidewalk were caved into basements filled with sickly yellow water, the surface covered with floating objects. Quiet and apparent peace rested over the town as the people probed sadly among the litter in the street looking for belongings, moving silently, apparently shocked by the suddenness of it all. A few stars glittered faintly above the havoc; a few night birds chirped feebly among the torn branches of the trees; while below, all was disorder. page FOURTEEN Power of Concentration by Shirley Poulton WHILE waiting for a literary inspiration, one can often think of everything under the sun other than the task at hand. What is there about a blank sheet of paper and some newly sharpened pencils that reminds one of the football game last Saturday, or the formal ball next week? Brain cells are incorrigible little vagabonds, wandering all over the place at the most crucial moments. Why in thunder should they choose such times to display their gymnastics? One should never tempt fate by leaving important tasks until the zero hour. My brain cells just seem to lie in wait for such a crisis, and then they lead me over green pastures of fascinating thoughts, and I am virtually helpless. You see, I am one of those countless millions who have not learned to concentrate, either in work or conversation. But one lady of my acquaintance seems to have solved the problem. However, don't ask her how she accomplished it. I did. And here's the result. "Do you have trouble in concentrating, my dear? So many of my friends do, and I can't understand why. Surely we are masters of our minds, and if we persevere there is nothing that we can't accomplish. But if you're worried over this situation, let me help you. Let me tell you my formula for developing the power of concentration. "First of all, you must discipline yourself, my dear. Exclude all thoughts from your mind except those relating to the subject at hand. Which reminds me, you should have seen the hand I held in a game of pinochle last night. Believe it or not, I had a double family and if it hadn't been for a dumb play of my partner I'd be a quarter richer today. But that only proves the old saying, 'A chain is as strong as its weakest link.' My partner was not only weak, he was missing. Ha, ha. Get it? "But to get back to the power of concentration. The second rule in my formula is: Don't tolerate any interruptions. They might weaken your determination, and you might give up all together. It's like sewing a dress. If you once lay your work aside, you lose interest. Did I get th is dress in town? Yes, but you won't find another like it for it's exclusive. Of course, one has^to pay a great deal for originality, but don't you find it worth the price? At least one doesn't see replicas of herself walking down the street. There's nothing more humiliating than when one has to sit at the same bridge table with some old cat who has duplicated your dress. Lifetime friendships have been broken up by much less cause. "But I fear I've wandered a little from my subject. How many rules have I given you? Just two? I must have some more. Hmm . . . Let me see. Say, do you think I could dare wear my old black formal to the dance tomorrow? It's beginning to wrinkle around my mid-section, and besides that, everyone and his grandchildren have seen the relic. But I'd rather wear the thing to my grave than have to beg the money for a new one. Perhaps I can buy a red flower for the neck. What do you think about it? I'll just die if Mrs. Jones has a new dress tomorrow. And she probably will, the cat. "There's something else I can tell you that will help you learn to concentrate. Oh yes, don't give up. I was often discouraged, but I finally overcame all obstacles. No, never say die. By the way, did you read about all those poor Poles dying over there? I hope those beasts don't come over here. But I'm awfully glad my Willie's got dependents now, even if we do have to support them. Of course, the old man would disagree, but just the same, Willie kept him home in 1917. That reminds me of a joke. 'We named the baby "Weatherstripping" because he kept his father out of the draft during the war.' Ha, ha. Get it? "Well, dear, I think that's all the help I can give you. But I'm sure these four rules will help you as much as they did me. Since I've mastered the art, my speeches at lodge have improved one hundred per cent. I've even heard rumors that I'll be the next Grand Matron." But in spite of her confidence, I'm afraid that the world will just struggle along without my friend's practical philosophy, at least until she discovers where the proof of the pudding lies. by RUTH MYERS Beating rain Knits breathless scars On your goodbye; And lulling winds Hauntingly sooth An escaped sigh. page FIFTEEN