"
With a last glance at them he turned on his heel and his head bowed
on his chest as his hand touched the door knob.
"Good-by," he repeated. He turned the door knob.
But at these words a flying bundle of snakes and silk and tawny hair
hurled itself at him.
"Oh, Perry, don't leave me! I can't face it alone! Perry, Perry,
take me with you!"
Her tears rained down in a torrent and flowed damply on his neck.
Calmly he folded his arms about her.
"I don't care," she cried tearfully. "I love you and if you can wake
up a minister at this hour and have it done over again I'll go West
with you."
Over her shoulder the front part of the camel looked at the back
part of the camel--and they exchanged a particularly subtle,
esoteric sort of wink that only true camels can understand.
BREAK-NECK HILL
BY ESTHER FORBES
From _The Grinnell Review_
Down Holly Street the tide had set in for church. It was a proper,
dilatory tide. Every silk-hat glistened, every shoe was blacked, the
flowers on the women's hats were as fresh as the daffodils against
the house fronts. Few met face to face, now and then a faster walker
would catch up with acquaintances and join them or, with a flash of
raised hat, bow, and pass on down the stream.
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