These Things She LovedJANET JARRETT

Nancy McIntire lay quite still in thegreat four-poster bed. Her tiny shrivelledframe was huddled beneath the covers andher eyes had lost their old sparkle. Sheknew that what everybody said was true,that she would never again leave her bed.For Nancy McIntire was nearly ninety.

There was a narrow band of sunlightstreaming through a crack in the shade.Dumbly she watched the particles of dustcaught in its rays. Bits of matter sud-denly snatched up in their idle drifting bya slirn golden shaft, turned into a thousandshirnmering little worlds, and then droppedback into the darkness.

"Maybe that's what people are," shethought, "tiny things suddenly bathed in alovely light and then ceasing to be. Ormaybe that's death, a step from out' ofdarkness into a dazzling light."

As she lay there waiting for theshadows and mist to overtake her, shecould see in her mind's eye all the thingsshe treasured. During her long life shehad learned to see beauty in the thingsabout her and, because of this, she had alsolearned to love them. She could see herfields in their neat checker-board patternsand the pasture lying like the heart of agreat emerald scarred only by the tiny footpath and a sluggish little brook whichloitered near one corner.

She saw her corn storing golden sun-shine inside cool green sheaths and thepumpkins at its feet which would soonbegin to show a brilliant orange. She sawgreen fields dotted with white starlets ofclover ~U1dthe orchard where sturdy treesstood knee-deep in the luxuriant growthof grass, and she realized anew how goodthe lives of the trees were. Each year they

awoke to the clarion call of spring drawingtheir vitality from the storehouse whichnature provided. They developed andmatured through sultry summer days whenthe sun was a glowing white-hot ball andfinally brought forth their fruit in the ripegolden days of autumn. Their life eachyear was ended in a glorious triumph ofcolor and richness. Not for them wasthis slow wasting away at the end of the

road.Thinking of these things she was

engulfed by a tide of memories. Shecould see the cows in the fields surveyingthe world with a calm unquestioning gaze.She had not always felt so about them.There had been a time when to her un-accustomed eyes they had appeared assavage beasts waiting for her to stumble.Her mind wandered back to the time when,more than half a century ago, she had casther lot with that of Steve McIntire andcome to live with him on his farm.

She remembered her terror at thesilence, the silence through which each ofnature's tiny voices could be heard. Sheremembered how she had closed her eyesto the shattering white sun-light, BOdiffer-ent from that of the city, and how gratefulshe had been when the lengtheningshadows across the fields had foretold thecoming of the cool purple dusk. Now sheloved the day-light best. ThOBe piercingwhite rays cheered her, and her bodyseemed to plead for their hotness. Shedreaded the dusk now. It was pale and

cold; it seemed to prophesy the time whenshe too would be pale and cold.

As she counted over all her cherishedlandmarks, she remembered the barn. Itswalls long since having lost their coat of

paint, looked silvery gray and brown inthe light. Even from the first she hadloved the barn. It was a cool, darkretreat, its floor criss-crossed with palebars of sunlight filtered through cracks inthe walls. She remembered its draughtyloft which the pigeons claimed, its pungentdoor of freshly cut hay, its corners filledwith mysterious odds and ends. It hadbeen a long time since she had venturedall the way down to the barn, but even yetshe could recall all those things and lovethem.

Then in her mind's eye she saw herhouse as it had been when she came to it.She had loved her house too, and now. asher life was nearly finished she knew shewould leave in it, indelibly stamped, herOwnpersonality. It was here in her housethat her domain lay, and here more thanany place else were the tangible remindersof her life. She could visualize herkitchen where she had spent so manyhours, its walls lined with pots and panswhich caught the early morning sun inbright dancing points of light.

Filling one corner and crowding intothe room stood a great cupboard paintedapple green. In its vast bosom it heldcountless good things to eat as well as thebest dishes with their bold blue and whitepattern. The center of the room wasdominated by an oversized table. It hadalways been covered with gay red andwhite tablecloths except on Sundays andwhen company was expected. On theseOccasions it proudly bore the thick damaskcloth which age had made an ivory color.

The table was supported by enormously

large pillar-like legs which bore jagged

scars from the many battles waged about

them. (Here in her own kitchen the

threads of her life had made their head-quarters.)

Then she saw her pantry. Even morethan her kitchen she loved this tiny roomwhich the rows of preserves and jelliestransformed into a color-filled fairy land.In stocking its shelves she had createdbeauty as surely as an artist. And be-cause it was all her own she had loved itbest of all. She could see yet the jarswhich seemed to catch the few stray beamsof light and to hold them in glorious ranksof glowing ruby and rich amber.

As she cherished the memory of allthese things she could see as from a greatdistance the pattern and meaning of herlife. She knew now it had been a goodlife. It had been a busy one too; all herdays had been filled with the countlessduties required of one who looks after alarge family on a farm. It was not anillustrious, shining life. Instead hers hadbeen a life of faithful steady service. Shehad uncomplainingly served those peopleand things she loved best, and as a rewardshe could hold in her mind a treasury ofbeautiful things.

Now she was no longer needed and itwas time she rested from her work. Shewas very tired, all she wanted was to liequite still and watch through the ever-approaching mist the tiny flecks of dustcaught in the sun's light.

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