ANN/Totten words, nor those tender puerilities which seem to slip from the lips of a woman to the velvety coat of a cat she is fondling. She governed her beasts with authority. She ruled. She was a widow with a cracked voice and an awkward gesture, whose soul seemed hard. She never allowed contradiction from any person, nor argument, nor would she tolerate hestitation, or indifference, nor idleness, nor fatigue. No one ever heard her complain, or regret what was, or desire what was not. "Each to his part," she would say with the conviction of a fatalist. She never went to church, cared nothing for ministers, scarcely believed in God, and called all religious things mournful merchandise. For many years she had lived in her little stucco house, with its tiny garden in front extending along the road. She replaced without tears and without regrets, her dogs or cats or chickens when they died of old age, or by accident, and she buried trespassing animals in a flower bed, and would heap the earth above them and tread it down with perfect indifference. She had a few acquaintances. Sometimes they would invite her to go to the movies with them. She would inevitably fall asleep on these occasions, and they would wake her when it was time to go home. She never allowed anyone to accompany her, having no fear by night or day. She occupied her time with a thousand chores, carpentry, gardening, cutting or sawing wood, repairing her whole house, even doing mason's work when it is was necessary. Queen Ann had some relatives who came to visit her about twice during the year. However, no tenderness united this lady to her kinfolk. One summer she became suddenly ill. The neighbors went for a doctor, whom she drove away. When the minister presented himself she got out of bed half naked, and put him out. After three days in bed, the situation became so grave that the people next door, after counsel with the physician, took it upon themselves to summon her relatives. They arrived by bus about eleven o'clock in the morning. When they approached her gate, they saw a lady, a friend of Queen Ann's seated in a chair against the wall weeping. The dog lay asleep on the mat before the door. Under a broiling sun, two cats, that looked as if they were dead, lay stretched out on the window sills with eyes closed and paws and tails extended at full length. A great glossy hen was promenading before the door, at the head of a flock of chickens, and in a large cage hung against the wall covered with chickweed were several birds singing themselves hoarse in the light of that hot summer morning. Two other birds, inseparable, in a little cage in the form of a cottage remained quiet, side by side on their porch. Ann's sister, a large, wheezy woman, who always entered a room first, putting aside men and women when it was necessary, remarked to the lady in the chair, "Is it so bad as that?" The lady sobbed through her tears and said, "She doesn't know me any more. The doctor says it is the end." Ann's sister and the relatives looked at each other and, embraced each other instantly, not saying a word. But no one dared to go into the room of the dying woman. Finally the women were led into the room by a man who balanced himself like the mast of a ship. A ray of sunlight fell on the bed, lighting up the hands which moved nervously, opening and shutting without ceasing. The fingers moved as if a thought animated them, as if they would signify something, indicate some idea, or obey some intelligence. The rest of the body remained motionless under the covers. The angular figure gave no start. The eyes remained closed. The relatives arranged themselves in a semicircle and, without saying a word, regarded the heaving breast and short breathing. Suddenly the lips of the lady began to move. She seemed to pronounce some silent words concealed in her dying brain, and her hands quickened their singular movement. Then she spoke in a little, thin voice, quite unlike her own, an utterance that seemed to come from far off, perhaps from the bottom of her closed heart. 40 She muttered something quickly, which they were unable to understand. She pronounced some names, called tenderly some imaginary person. "Come here, my little Philip, kiss your mother. You love Mama don't you, my child? You, Mary, you will watch your little sister while I am out, especially don't leave her alone, do you hear? And I forbid you to touch matches." She was silent a few seconds, then, in a loud tone, as if she would call, she said, "Elsie!", then waited a little and continued, "I am suffering a little today, dear; promise me you will not return late, since you know that I am ill. You know its dangerous to leave the children alone when I am in bed." She began to laugh, a young and noisy laugh, as she never laughed before. One relative said, "She is dreaming she has some small children, the end must be near." Shortly the relatives went out and sat in another room. They heard from the next room the voice of agony, living without doubt, in this last hour, the life she had expected, living her dreams at the very moment when all would be finished for her. The woman spoke continually, but the voice was lower, so that it was no longer possible to distinguish her words. Suddenly the dying woman began to speak loud again. Then she shouted. The relatives hastened in to see what had happened. The dying woman was sitting straight up staring with haggard eyes. Her dog had jumped upon the bed, startling her from the death agony. The dog was entrenched behind the pillow, peeping at his comrade with eyes glistening, ready to jump again at the least movement. One of the relatives, intimidated by the woman's rising so suddenly before her, remained motionless before the bed. The hen, having just entered, had jumped upon a chair, frightened by the noise. Another hen peeped with fear from under the legs of the chair. Queen Ann cried out with a piercing tone, "No, no, I do not wish to die! I am not willing!" She turned on her back. The dog, much excited, jumped into the room and skipped about. Someone cried, "Come quickly! Come quickly!" WAR IS A WHORE/David Barber War is a whore, Whose breath is death. With her bed like lead, Whose ways waste days Makes man hate man, Sees him Stumbel and Rumbel. War is a whore Is a whore is a whore... 41