....Spring Page Two Who Dwell in the dust By pauline rogers AFAINT elusive fragrance came to Bill as he sat there at his desk. Something whispered to him from the marsh grass and the thickets whispered to him of seeds squirming in the black earth, of sap running in the trees, of gentle rains falling and rinsing the dusty gray valley. Ten, twenty-five, fifteen, forty . . . regiments of neat black figures marched through his brain. Ten, twenty-five, ten, twenty-five . . . Once again the clean fresh spring smell drifted up to him. Then his arm relaxed, the pen dropped from his fingers, and he stared out at the hills scalloped along the horizon. Over there the day was burning itself out in flames of russet, orange, and crimson. Streamers of pink and yellow water-colored the sky; puddles of gold lay across the mountain snow, and far to the east huge billowy clouds frothed above the mountain peaks like lemon-colored foam. Slowly all the color was draining away, dissolving into the gray cheerlessness of the landscape. Leafless trees, dilapidated shacks, sagging barbed-wire fences mud, soot, garbage. Gray, drab, monotonous like his life. He could see the days drag along in ceaseless piocession. Coffee and toast at eight. Hum-drum drowsy mornings at the office. A hasty snack at the corner cafe. Then more meetings, more drowsi-ness, more neat black figures. Outside children were rollicking in the street. He could hear their excited squeals and their laughter. They looked like black dots bobbing up and down in the twilight. He was still young, too; but here he was respectable, dignified, steeped in centuries of Midford culture. Spring was bursting forth fresh, lovely, virile. Everything needed a change in the spring. Out in the kitchen, he could hear Mary humming a little tune to herself. What would she think if she knew that he was sick of everything. Mary, who was beautiful like a tranquil pool of satiny black water. He fingered Rob's invitation and gazed out at the Milford twilight. Ezra Lane tottered down the road. Superannuated, rheumatic, with gray, withered flesh. Ezra Lane had stayed in Milford and poured over neat black figures. Twenty-five and thirty ... in thirty more years would he be like that? He felt thoroughly sick. That night after dinner he sat before the fire and read the newspaper. Mary was knitting and watching the sparks as they swarmed up the chimney. He thought she looked as chaste as a nun sitting there with her pale face, her coil of glossy black hair, her immaculate white collars and cuffs. From the newspaper a girl was smiling at him with straight white teeth. The wind was blowing through her hair. She looked free and independent . . . free as the wind itself. Somewhere a dog was barking, a hoarse, gruff bark. In bold type the paper said that some British minister had died. Damn it! What did he care about British ministers? He wished that confounded dog would stop barking. "Mary.'' He heard his own voice frail and weak. "Mary, business has been piling up a bit lately. Guess I'll have to make a run to Chicago." Already he could see the light flash along the gay walks in the big city. He waited for her to answer. A tiny blue flame licked at the charred log. Outside a door slammed; a car crunched over the gravel, then galloped down the street. "I'll be gone about a month." Still she didn't answer. He watched her hands weave in and out, in and out in the same rhythmic pattern. "I suppose Id better start packing tonight." Then she merely said "oh" in a quiet voice, murmured something about clean shirts and handkerchiefs, and looked at him frankly, seriously. He felt his face flushing. Could she pry into his soul with those large gray eyes? If she suspected, why didn't she rave, or stamp her foot, or start to hurl things the dishes or the lamp shade? She just sat there sphinx-like. That night the blackness pressed against him like something alive, then ebbed away. He could not sleep. It reminded him of one of those restless ghostly nights in the late fall when the moon was nothing but a dull orange crescent drooping over the humps of the hills, and the wind prowled through the withered stubble. The huge black engine was puffing and throbbing on the track. Bill felt an exhiliration run through him as he watched ringlets of black and white smoke spiral up toward the sky. This was the train that would carry him far from this dull pygmy village out into the world. He glanced at his watch. Just ten minutes now. Mary had come down to see him off. She stood there in her trim suit a stroke of gray against the morning sunlight. The train began creeping down the track. He gave her a brief peck on the cheek. "Goodbye, Mary, goodbye. Take good care of Billy." Then the train plodded past the yellow station squatting there, past the gray and brown fields. Faster and faster it went skimming along, flying free as the wind. Far behind, Milford was becoming a tiny black speck. Chicago! Chicago after so many years! Something gripped Bill as he looked at the huge bustling city sprawling below him, drenched in neon. Skyscrapers reared their massive heads against the glare of light. Myriads of green, blue, and red signs flashed a spray of color over everything. Thousands of people were caught in the intricate web of its streets. Thousands of people. Rob was still the same handsome cuss he had been in school, Bill thought, as they exchanged greetings and handshakes. The same langorous brown eyes, the same dapper figure. But he looked a trifle weary. They went out to Rob's apartment. Bill was impressed. "Quite the place you have here." "Yes, nice little joint. Stocks and investments do it all. No hard work, and a good income." Bill glanced about at the sleek sophistication of the room. "Is Mrs. Blakely here?" (Continued on Page 17) Page Three