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Title: Discovery at Aspen

Author: Sophie Liebowitz Ruskay

Release Date: September 17, 2020 [EBook #63217]

Language: English

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                       [Illustration: Autograph]




                           DISCOVERY AT ASPEN


                            by SOPHIE RUSKAY


                         A WONDERFUL WORLD BOOK

                NEW YORK: A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY, INC.
                      LONDON: THOMAS YOSELOFF LTD.

                             Illustrated by
                             JANET D’AMATO

                     [Illustration: Cabin bedroom]

           Copyright © 1960 by A. S. Barnes and Company, Inc.
           Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 60-10204
                Printed in the United States of America
                          All Rights Reserved

                     A. S. Barnes and Company, Inc.
                          11 East 36th Street
                           New York 16, N.Y.

                          Thomas Yoseloff Ltd.
                          123 New Bond Street
                          London, W.1, England


                             _To the memory
                             of my husband
                            CECIL B. RUSKAY
                      whose delightful personality
                           and creative gifts
                          made him so beloved
                   by his children and grandchildren
                     and a host of young friends._




                                CONTENTS


  _Chapter and Title_                                             _Page_
  1 So You’re Going to Aspen                                          11
  2 Aspen: From Silver Dust to Music                                  19
  3 Pleasures of Travel                                               27
  4 First Glimpse of Aspen                                            37
  5 A Rude Yet Pleasant Awakening                                     52
  6 Karl                                                              66
  7 A Family Argument Happily Resolved                                77
  8 Smuggler’s Café                                                   90
  9 A Small Triumph                                                   99
  10 A Catastrophe with a Happy Ending                               106
  11 Judy, Amateur Psychologist                                      124
  12 Ashcroft, The Ghost Town                                        135
  13 The Huskies                                                     147
  14 “Confidentially Yours”                                          154
  15 The Mountain Climb                                              157
  16 Near Tragedy and Rescue                                         170
  17 Clouds on the Horizon                                           180
  18 A Dream Is Crystallized                                         190
  19 Farewell to Aspen                                               203
  20 Mother and Daughter                                             211




                           DISCOVERY AT ASPEN




                                   1
                        SO YOU’RE GOING TO ASPEN


Judy Lurie sat cross-legged on the floor of her room surveying the
results of her labor. The room was a mess, even by her easy standards.
But the box containing her last summer’s meager wardrobe had been
thoroughly gone over and everything that could be salvaged was in piles
ready for the family trunk. The empty battered suitcase and the books,
she decided, could wait, since it was still five days before she and her
parents, Minna and John Lurie, were to leave for the summer holiday.

“So you’re going to Aspen!” a familiar voice ejaculated. “How wonderful
for you and John!”

Preoccupied as Judy was, the voices from the living room reached her
dimly at first. Her room, a tiny alcove separated from the living room
by heavy chintz draperies, frequently had its disadvantages. But there
were compensations, too. You could hear and see and yet be delightfully
invisible.

“I wish I were able to go to Colorado!” another voice remarked with a
shade of envy. “How wonderful for you and John.... By the way, where is
John? Is he trying to hide from us?”

“Hide?” her mother repeated, a slight flush spread over the lovely pale
face. “Of course not. He was so sorry, so much music to pack....”

Judy forgot her invisibility and nearly laughed out loud. When her
mother had casually mentioned as they left the lunch table that some of
the girls would be dropping in to say good-bye, her father, with a
let-me-out-of-this look, took refuge in his studio. Lucky father,
probably enjoying a book or a nap or fussing with his viola while she
was imprisoned in this alcove, unless she wished to barge into the
melee....

The voices of the guests were getting louder. Judy got up, stretched her
cramped legs and cautiously pushed a corner of the drapery to one side.
Nobody had gone. Instead the room overflowed with new arrivals. Gifts
were heaped on the piano, purses on the fine mahogany tables, and a
patent-leather bag stood on the mantel, making the Staffordshire dogs
look even more foolish.

“Minna,” one woman was saying, “with that glorious voice of yours you
ought to be a sensation!”

Her mother, surrounded by her guests, smiled happily.

“Not a sensation, but it is a wonderful opportunity for me to study with
Mme. Rousse and to work with some of the advanced pupils. And best of
all, to sing in the opera. As for John, it’s just what he wanted. To
play in the orchestra, have his own quartet and some teaching. It should
be a good summer for all of us, especially since we will have Judy with
us.”

At the mention of her name, Judy listened attentively.

“It’s lovely that she’s going with you; but Judy’s only about fifteen
and a half. Isn’t that rather young to be attending the Aspen Music
School?”

“Oh, she’s not going to attend the school. Fifteen isn’t too young if
one is a serious student but, as a matter of fact, Judy has given up the
piano.” Minna’s sigh was audible through the chintz.

“But she used to play so beautifully!”

“That’s the pity of it.” Her mother went on retelling what Judy knew.
“At the age of ten she was improvising songs and pieces. We thought we
had produced another Mozart. Now she plays when the mood is on. She
claims practicing dulls inspiration.”

There was a slight titter of amusement, but one woman whom Judy had
frequently seen at the house said earnestly, “But _what_ will she do
there, then?”

“Oh, I’m not worried about Judy,” her mother said lightly. “She’s very
resourceful, very intelligent.”

The girl felt a warm glow of satisfaction.

“She reads everything,” her mother went on. “My father considers her his
special vessel for all his accumulated wisdom. Like him, she loves to
sketch, preferably in oils. Now the canvases are left to molder in
Mother’s attic—fortunately not here. I guess it’s anything but music!”
Minna smiled at her questioner, “but Aspen ought to change all that.”

Judy left her listening post trying to stem a feeling of rebellion at
her mother’s words. Mechanically she began to straighten up the room and
noticed the matching scarf of the new party dress which she had
pressured her mother into buying for her. “Very well, for concerts
then,” her mother had said as she finally succumbed. Judy hoped that
both she and the dress were destined for more exciting occasions than
mere concerts! The thought of the dress cheered her. She wished it
weren’t already packed in the trunk, so that she could try it on again.
The scarf would do. She draped it around her shoulders to suggest the
dress and rubbed the dull surface of her mirror.

“A real treasure from Colonial days,” her grandmother had said when she
gave it to her. Well, maybe so; the frame was certainly beautiful, but
the smoky surface didn’t help her visualize how dazzling she would look,
the steel blue bringing out the deep blue of her eyes, the tight bodice
and the billowy skirt, making her small waist look smaller still.

She turned her head to one side. Hmmm. The nose was passable. The eyes,
well, she knew they were her best feature. But why hadn’t she Mother’s
creamy, pale skin instead of this healthy, dusky glow! She touched the
thick brown hair held firmly by a rubber band. A pony tail was all right
but some day her mother would weaken and she would get that permanent. A
long, soft pageboy would hide these bony shoulders.

She folded the scarf and laid it on her day bed. Then she wedged herself
into the small Boston rocker, the first of her antique possessions. She
rocked gently, repeating the question her mother had not answered. “What
would she do in Aspen?” She wasn’t so sure about the blessedness of
belonging to a family so entirely dedicated to music. Her growing
misgivings had been heightened by her recent visit with her
grandparents. Again she thought of what her grandmother had said. “Your
father and mother will be busy all day with rehearsals, teaching,
concerts, parties night and day. Why not spend the summer with us as
you’ve done for years? You love the sea, racing the dog on the beach. I
need you in the garden and your cousins will be back again for a visit.
The youngsters on the block want you to teach them to swim—fifty cents a
lesson.”

Why, then, Judy wondered, had she given up so quickly a summer where she
had been so happy in the past? Of course going to Aspen meant a trip to
the West, to Colorado, the Rockies. The West was romantic. And her
schoolmates were doing exciting things for the summer. One was going to
a ranch in Wyoming. Her best friend was going to a work camp in Vermont.
But these things cost money and Judy knew there was none to spare.

One thing had influenced her above everything. When her parents received
the invitation to join the staff at the Aspen Music School, the first
thought of her mother and father had been not of the wonderful
opportunity for themselves. No, over and over they had repeated, “At
last Judy can spend a whole summer with us.”

But in the weeks that followed they had become more and more immersed in
their preparations, selecting music for the Quartet, conferring with the
Dean of the Aspen School and as their excitement mounted, Judy felt hers
diminish. She felt she didn’t belong in her parents’ world. They didn’t
need her.

She walked to the window and stared ahead of her.... The summers of the
past took on an even rosier hue. The swims, the companionship of cousins
rarely seen, the homey loving household of which she was so much a part.
And the long summer evenings.... She saw herself again on the screened
porch of the Beach House. A few young neighbors, whom her grandfather
called his steady customers, were sitting near her. Her grandfather was
reading “Hamlet.” How tender his voice as he spoke the lines of Ophelia.
The moths beat their wings against the lamp, a soft droning
accompaniment. With hands cupped over his mouth he made the trumpet
sound. The King and Queen! The Duel scene... you could almost hear the
clash of rapiers.... Hamlet was dying ... Laertes ... the Queen! What
made Grandma leave the room at such a moment! But she returned almost at
once carrying a tray of ice-cream covered with oozing red, red
strawberries. And Grandfather, outraged at the sight, with an imperious
gesture, waved her aside, declaiming as if it were part of the play,
“Can’t you wait until they all decently die?” Judy smiled at the
remembrance.

She loved her parents. She didn’t want to hurt them, but at this moment
she felt she must speak up before it was too late. She heard her father
saying jovially, “Well, have the locusts finally gone?”

Judy parted the draperies and peered through the opening.

“Thank goodness, they’re all gone.”

She took a deep breath and strode into the room.

“Father,” she stopped and gulped. “You and mother are going to be so
busy at Aspen. What will I do there? I don’t know anyone. I haven’t any
friends there.”

Her father looked startled but said nothing.

“Why it’s childish to feel that way,” her mother answered easily. “There
are loads of young people at the Aspen Music School. You’ll meet them.”

“How? I’m not going as a music student. You know how things work out.
Students all get involved in their school activities. I’ll just be an
outsider. I’m worried,” her voice broke. “I want to have fun, but more
than that, I want to do something for _me_—something that matters—if you
know what I mean.”

Mrs. Lurie looked distraught. “You don’t want to come with us? It’s the
first summer in years that we’ve been able to plan to be together like a
normal family. You’re sure to find companions.” She turned to her
husband for support, but he had disappeared.

“Judy,” her mother said with a touch of finality in her voice, “there’s
no sensible reason why you can’t take up the piano again. Don’t set your
mind against it. The whole atmosphere of Aspen engenders the love of
music, the desire to study it.”

“But that’s exactly what I don’t want, Mother. Can’t you understand my
feelings? Practicing hours on end! I’ll never be a real performer, so
why bother?” She hesitated and then went on, her voice almost inaudible.
“I’d rather stay with Grandma and Grandpa at the Beach House, hearing
poetry and plays that I love.”

Her mother suddenly looked sad, and Judy was overcome with remorse.

“Mother,” she began.

The tired eyes looked at her questioningly, “Yes....”

“I guess I’m just being selfish,” Judy said, then added desperately,
“Maybe it’ll work out all right. I’ll go.”

Minna smiled with relief. “I don’t think you’ll regret it. Sometimes new
unfamiliar surroundings bring out a potential one didn’t know one
possessed. Something good is bound to emerge from the three of us living
together in a carefree atmosphere.” She paused, studying her daughter’s
face.

“Our careers have often come first—or so it seems, but for a little
while we’d like to be just parents. Do you understand? It would have
been an unbearable disappointment to your father.”

John Lurie bounded into the room, excited as a schoolboy. “It’s all
settled! It’s in the bag!” He grabbed his daughter and waltzed her
around.

“Father,” she begged when she could catch her breath, “what’s in the
bag? What are you talking about?”

“All right, I’ll tell you. A few weeks ago, the Dean mentioned that my
friend Jim Crawley had gone ahead with his scheme and was opening a
Little Theater in Aspen. That gave me an idea. It was the day after you
were such a knock-out in the class play. I called him on the phone and
told him, ‘I have a lovely, gifted daughter, nearly sixteen who’s going
with us to Aspen. Do you think you have room for a budding Audrey
Hepburn?’ He laughed that he didn’t know at the moment but he would get
in touch with me. With all his plans, I guess he forgot about it. I’m
ashamed to confess I forgot about it. But when you threatened to desert
your music-driven parents for another summer to do something on your
own, a flash illuminated this tired old brain. I just finished speaking
with Jim. He says, if you’re half as good as I say, if you’ve got decent
diction, are willing to cooperate in every way—that means, help paint
scenery and fix costumes, and are willing to work for free, since we’ll
be feeding and housing you, he’ll take you on. P.S. You’ve got the job.”

“Father, you mean it! It’s not one of your practical jokes?”

He nodded solemnly.

“It’s too good to be true. I’ll be acting! Not in a school play but in a
real theater!”

“Oh, it’s only a barn,” her father made haste to explain. “Summer
theaters are always in barns. That’s why they’re called the Straw
Circuit.”

“Oh, I’m so excited!”

“And we’re just as happy for your sake,” her mother said, “but don’t get
too carried away. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a walk-on or maybe a bit
part as the little household slavey, in which you dust the stage
furniture before the star walks on.”

“It doesn’t matter! Just to smell the grease paint!”

She flung her arms about her father and kissed him. “You’re wonderful.
Absolutely the most. I can’t wait until I tell Grandfather.”

Hurrah for the three Luries, professionals all.




                                   2
                    ASPEN: FROM SILVER DUST TO MUSIC


Now that the summer in Aspen had acquired so many glamorous
possibilities, Judy could scarcely wait for the day of departure. She
went over her wardrobe a dozen times to make sure everything was
properly packed. With her new responsibilities, clothes became more
important than ever. After all, an actress had to dress properly
off-stage as well as on. She owed it to her public.

Finally the interminable few days passed. The trunks were packed and
shipped off. The suitcases the Luries would carry with them were also
stuffed and ready. It was the last night and there was only the final
visit from Grandpa and Grandma to say good-bye.

On learning of her summer theater job, Judy’s first impulse had been to
phone her grandparents immediately and regale them with the great news.
But then she decided it would be more fun to break it to them in person
and now she awaited their arrival with eager anticipation.

Despite that, when the elderly couple did arrive, Judy greeted them in
her usual affectionate manner. She was going to do this in her own way.

As Mr. Ritchie settled himself in a comfortable chair, John Lurie dug
into his pocket and came up with a huge cigar. “I saved this for you,
C.B., tin foil and all. I got it from a big shot.”

“Thanks John, but if you don’t mind I’ll smoke one of my own. I have
certain misgivings about cigars heavily disguised in tin foil
wrappings.” He lit his own and watched the smoke curl around.

“That’s a nice engagement you’ve managed to get. Wonderful country and
ideal surroundings.”

Grandmother’s voice reached them. She had been earnestly talking to her
daughter and now walked restlessly up and down, glancing at the packed
suitcases cluttered in one corner.

“Tanglewood, Minneapolis, now Aspen. Like Gypsies!”

She came over to Judy and lightly touched her hair. “Well, Judy, are you
glad you’re going?”

“Of course I am.” The girl tossed it off lightly. “But even if I weren’t
I couldn’t back out at this point ... not with all my commitments.”

Mrs. Ritchie peered at the girl with a puzzled look. “What commitments?”

“My engagements. I can’t just throw them overboard.”

The grandmother turned to Minna. “What is the girl talking about?”

Minna swallowed a smile and shrugged her shoulders. “You’d better ask
her.”

“All right. What are these engagements you’ve mentioned?”

Judy refused to be hurried. “Well, mother is engaged to sing in the
opera. Father is engaged to play in the orchestra and string quartet.
And I’m engaged to....” She hesitated long enough to permit the suspense
to build. Then with a leap, she flung her arms around her grandmother
and shouted the rest of it. “I’m booked to act in a summer theater. A
real, professional summer theater.”

With a rush of words she poured out the whole story as her grandparents
listened with excitement and pleasure.

Grandpa stood up and walked across the room. “Good luck to you, Judy.
After watching this little performance you put on for us I know you’ll
be the star of that company before the summer’s over.” Mr. Ritchie
beamed down at his granddaughter. “You’ll love Colorado, Judy, as we
did.” He took his wife’s hand. “Remember when we were there, climbing
like goats and weeks later went on to climb Mt. Rainier—”

“I love the mountains. I’ve never seen anything higher than Mt.
Washington.”

“Aspen is high. Eight thousand feet and is surrounded by peaks thirteen
and fourteen thousand feet.” Mr. Ritchie paused, a faraway look in his
eyes. “Those glorious mountains once possessed the greatest silver mines
in the world! But that’s a story in itself.”

Judy looked up expectantly. For years her grandfather had told her
fascinating tales of American history.

“You know you’re going to tell that story.” Minna smiled at her father.

He looked quizzically at his daughter. “I’m only being persuaded for
Judy’s sake.”

“Yes, yes, we know,” his son-in-law added grinning.

“The fascinating thing about Aspen, Judy, is that until about
seventy-five or eighty years ago, it was an empty valley in the heart of
the Rockies. Colorado was a territory with little to attract settlers
until they discovered silver. Then there was a mad rush to get to the
camps near Denver. Soon all the claims were staked out. The late comers
looked across the jagged peaks and thought of the silver hidden in those
mountains.”

“Did they go?” Judy asked impatiently.

Her grandfather continued, unruffled by the interruption. “The settlers
were warned that the land beyond the Continental Divide belonged to the
Iute Indians. But the rights of the Indians meant little to men hungry
for riches. They entered the Indian country, naming it Aspen because of
the forests of white-barked aspen trees.”

“Our treatment of the Indians was worse than shabby,” John muttered
vehemently.

“Yes, there were cruel and bloody struggles, but finally the Iute Chief
made peace with the white man.” Mr. Ritchie paused to relight his cigar.
“The rush for silver was on once more—this time at Aspen.”

“Isn’t that what you told me happened when Great Uncle Jake went out to
California at the time of the Gold Rush?”

“Perhaps, Judy, except that Uncle Jake never struck gold and came back
poorer than when he left—

“In Aspen country, settlers got rich, mining silver or building up the
town. They built comfortable homes, not the ugly shacks you see in most
mining country. Aspen never became one of those gambling, shooting
communities. The settlers were different. Schools, churches, a bank, a
newspaper, everything mushroomed into the empty valley. Millions of
dollars’ worth of silver ore was taken out of the mines. Then when
things were at the brightest, the silver mining towns lost their biggest
customer, the United States Government! The final blow came in 1893! Our
government decided that gold, not silver, should be used in the United
States Mint.

“The mines stopped operating. Miners were thrown out of work—so was
everyone else. The people had to leave or starve. Aspen became a ghost
town!”

“What do you mean, Grandpa?”

“When people have to leave their homes, everything they’ve labored to
build, the town dies. That’s what happened to Aspen! Maybe a hundred
settlers stayed on. The houses were empty, their doors swinging in the
wind, the streets deserted, Aspen slept.”

Minna’s voice broke the spell. “Music, not a prince, woke this sleeping
beauty. The old houses and new ones, too, are filled with music students
from all over the country. A great orchestra, like the one in which John
will play, gives concerts to thousands of people every week. Even the
old opera house has its season, students and professionals singing the
roles. Aspen is a paradise for musicians! And great lecturers, too, I’m
told.”

“And don’t overlook the skiers in winter,” John added happily. “They
come from all over the world to ski and to train for the Olympic
matches. I’m afraid, Judy, you’ll find no ghosts in Aspen, summer or
winter. So don’t let Grandpa’s tall tales bother you any.”

“Charles, we should be going. These young people will have to get some
rest. Besides, we’ll see them off tomorrow morning.”

“No, Mother dear, I won’t hear of your coming to the airport. We’ll say
good-bye right here—but don’t hurry away—stay a little longer!”

Mr. Ritchie shook his head. “We’ve got too much sense to stay on.” He
extracted a package from his briefcase.

“Judy, I nearly forgot to give you this. There’s a diary, a drawing pad,
a box of pastels, and a volume or two of poems. Something for every
shining hour, providing your heavy duties with the theater ever permit
such trivial occupation—” He laughed as he kissed her.

“Do you like my present?”

“Of course, I do. I was just thinking of last summer. When I told one of
the girls at school about your Shakespeare readings, she looked at me
pityingly. ‘You listened to Shakespeare of your own free will!’” Judy
laughed. “It’s lucky I never told her about my secret ambition,” Judy
looked innocently at her grandmother. “Yes, a writer—some day!”

Her grandmother shrugged her shoulders. “Why not choose something easy
like digging ditches?”

The sarcasm was lost on her granddaughter. “The trouble is I like so
many things—but actually,” she went on, “I don’t see why writing should
be so difficult. You get an idea, you write it down, do a line research,
maybe—there are enough words in the dictionary—”

“Of course,” her grandmother said wryly.

Mrs. Ritchie put on her coat and she too remembered a parcel. “Minna
dear,” she said, handing her daughter an oversized shoebox, “take this
with you on the trip. It might come in handy.”

Her daughter eyed the box suspiciously. “Come in handy?” She’d heard
that formula before. “Mother! You’d think we were crossing the continent
in the covered wagon days. Haven’t we enough to carry?”

“Be thankful, Minna, it isn’t a roast turkey with all the trimmings,”
her father said, laughing while Minna shook her head in mock despair.

John cleared his throat and impulsively put his arms around his
parents-in-law. “We know how good you’ve been to us, and how patient.
But as musicians, we must go where opportunity beckons.”

Judy stood with her mother at the window and watched her grandparents
walk slowly to their car. Their shoulders touched, Grandma holding
Grandpa’s arm.

“They’re so wonderful,” her mother murmured. “They made our careers
possible. It wasn’t easy for us, nor for them.” Her voice was low, as if
speaking to herself. “Struggle ... to get even this far—”

“What struggle?” Judy wondered. All those exciting trips her parents
took to faraway countries? Of course, they were rarely able to get
engagements together. Last month her father was in Canada and her mother
in Argentina. But in only two weeks they were back. As for herself, she
always had her grandparents! They disliked the city and the cramped
quarters of their daughter’s apartment. But they came just the same,
giving it, even for a week or two, something of the atmosphere of their
own home. A corner of the living room was turned into a studio for
Grandfather where he painted happily after a busy day at the office. In
another corner of the living room Grandmother had her typewriter where
she labored, when time permitted, at stories hopefully sent off, but
whose return never disheartened her for long! Records were played, but
the piano was rarely opened. Yes, it was fun having her grandparents
move in. Members of the family dropped in whom Judy otherwise never saw.
And the joy of the theater! Once it was “Medea.” When her grandmother
protested, Grandfather had said, “What, have the girl miss the chance of
seeing Judith Anderson!” They sat in the balcony, Grandmother wearing
Grandfather’s glasses. She always insisted her eyes were perfect, except
now and then. Her firm, straight back was bent forward, not to miss a
single word. Grandfather sat at ease, enjoying himself.

Her mother touched her arm. “What are you thinking about, Judy?”

“Nothing ... just remembering some wonderful times with Grandmother and
Grandfather.”

Her mother sighed. “It seems only a few years ago that they were
climbing mountains! Now they seem old.”

“How can you say that, Mother? They never seem old to me.”

“You’re a strange girl.”

They turned back to the living room. Mrs. Lurie checked over the
suitcases for the last time. Judy tidied up the room while her father
carefully covered his precious viola with layers of soft cloths.

The last chores were done. In the morning they would start on the first
lap of their journey to Aspen.




                                   3
                          PLEASURES OF TRAVEL


Flying was no novelty to her parents, but to Judy, whose small journeys
had always been by car, this, her first plane trip, was an event. In
Aspen they were going to do without a car. Mr. Lurie wouldn’t trust
their old bus on those mountain roads.

It was still foggy when they took their seats in the plane. Judy was
conscious of the unconcern of everyone but herself. Why, only last week
she heard over the radio, “the plane had only just left the ground
when—”

The motors started, whirring noisily as they warmed up. Mrs. Lurie
noticed the strained expression on her daughter’s face.

“Once we’re in the air, you’ll be thrilled. You’ll see Long Island as a
bird might—”

The girl smiled feebly. She closed her eyes. When I open them, she told
herself, I’ll be up in the air. She counted slowly to a hundred—they
were still in the same spot. Twice she repeated the experiment. The
plane was still on the ground, racing along the runway! Then when she
least expected it, there was a sudden lift and they were flying. The
mist had disappeared. The world below was an intricate design of shining
water, green fields, and toy houses. It was more wonderful than anything
she had ever imagined and with the wonder, her fears vanished.

Before long they were flying at nineteen thousand feet. All she could
see were soft fleecy clouds. The plane seemed like a giant bird skimming
over endless banks of snow. Three hours from the time they left the
airport they could make out the tall buildings of Chicago, hundreds of
miles from home.

“I’ll meet you at the railroad terminal in an hour, two at the most,”
John told his wife, taking only his viola with him as he stepped into a
taxi to keep his appointment.

Mrs. Lurie and Judy proceeded to the railroad. The porter left them with
their five pieces of baggage near the gate marked “Denver and
California.” There were no seats nearby and before a half hour passed,
it became increasingly difficult to stand. Judy balanced herself on one
of the upturned suitcases and her mother soon followed her example. They
tried to read. A coke from one machine and salted peanuts from another
provided a pleasant interlude. Judy watched people going into a
restaurant at the far end of the station. Her mother noticed her
fascinated absorption.

“We can’t move these bags and there isn’t a porter in sight. As soon as
your father comes, we’ll get something to eat.”

At the word “eat,” Judy remembered her grandmother’s shoebox—such
tremendous chicken sandwiches and fruit! This was the emergency her
grandmother always managed to foresee.

When another hour passed, Mrs. Lurie, no longer able to conceal her
anxiety, went in search of a porter. He tossed their luggage on his
truck while they took up their vigil at the gate, scanning every
entrance. With less than five minutes to spare, John rushed toward them,
mumbling breathlessly, “Sorry, darlings.”

“Sorry nothing,” Judy thought, severely critical. On the contrary, she
noticed his eyes sparkled.

“I signed the new contract,” he whispered to Minna as he herded them
aboard the train. Mrs. Lurie, too, was now all smiles, the tension of
the last hours forgotten.

They entered the car where they would spend the remaining hours of the
late afternoon, the night, and most of the following day.

Mr. Lurie cleared the seats of the luggage. His viola, never out of his
sight for a moment, he placed conspicuously near the seat he would
occupy.

“When we’re ready to retire,” Mrs. Lurie said, “the porter will come and
make up our beds. You’re taking the upper berth. Father and I will share
the lower one.”

It was seven-thirty before they could get seats in the dining car. They
stood with a long queue of people in the narrow corridor of the swaying
train. Everyone was friendly and freely gave advice. “Be sure to get up
early tomorrow morning so that you can get seats in the Vista Dome—”

At last the Luries were ushered to their seats by an impressive-looking
steward. Mr. Lurie was studying the menu card.

“Outrageous!”

“What is?” Judy asked, turning her gaze from the jiggling silver on the
table.

“The prices! One has the choice of starving or becoming bankrupt!”

“John,” her mother said quietly, “everyone can hear you. Besides, the
railroad can’t help charging so much. I read an article that showed they
actually lose money on the dining cars—the cost of food, the waste. They
threaten to discontinue them altogether.”

“Well then, let’s eat and be merry,” he replied, his high spirits
returning.

By the time they returned to their car, their beds were made up for the
night. Using the ladder, Judy climbed into her berth. The curtains were
fastened.

“Mother,” Judy called, sticking her head through a tiny opening, “it’s
pitch black. I can’t seem to locate the light.”

“It’s overhead, near the pillow,” her mother whispered. “Father and I
are going into the club car.”

Judy, on her knees to avoid bumping her head, groped about vaguely,
found the small button and pressed it hard. There was a resounding ring.
She jumped at the sound and then, quite by accident, found the light
switch. Cautiously, still on her knees, she began pulling off her
sweater.

“What is it, Miss?” The kindly face of the porter peered at her.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Judy said thickly, her sweater wedged
over her nose and mouth. “I couldn’t find the light. But it’s all right
now.”

“Ring whenever you need me.” He quickly withdrew his head. A battery of
bells called him.

She finished undressing lying flat on her back, struggled into pajamas,
and tossed her jumbled clothes in a heap at the foot of her berth.

“It’s six-thirty, Judy.” It was her mother speaking. “We want to get an
early breakfast so that we can get seats in the Vista Dome.” Her mother
was already dressed, when she could have slept through the morning, a
luxury Minna loved but rarely enjoyed.

When Judy made her appearance, her mother looked at her. “Your hair!—You
look as if you fell out of a grab bag.”

In the dressing room, overflowing with crying babies and their mothers,
Judy made herself presentable. Once again they went through the lunging
cars.

For Judy, the dinner of the night before hadn’t been much of a success.
She flushed as she remembered the white rivulet of milk coursing down
her new sweater.

“No fluids, thank you—something solid and substantial, like pancakes
with syrup. Besides,” she whispered to her father, “imagine, orange
juice, forty cents a glass!” His smile and nod commended her for her
good sense.

After breakfast they hurried to the last car. It was a comfortable
lounge in the center of which was a short flight of steps. They ascended
the stairway and entered the Vista Dome, a train above a train,
completely glassed in, even the top. The Luries crowded together in the
last vacant seat. They were silent, enraptured by the beauty of the
scene. Mountains hemmed them in on both sides. “What if there were a
landslide?” Judy thought, “and one of those overhanging crags came
crashing down on the glass dome!”

The train climbed steadily. As the hours passed, the mountains took on a
somber brown and dullish red and assumed the fantastic shapes of
turreted castles. Frequently the train disappeared into a tunnel cut
through the mountain. One of them, “the Moffat Tunnel,” the loudspeaker
announced, “is a great engineering feat and is six miles long.”

Many seats were vacant now. People were getting tired in spite of the
glorious views. Judy noticed a girl about her own age sitting alone.

“Why don’t you go over and speak to her,” her mother suggested. “She’ll
probably be glad of your company.”

Within a matter of minutes Judy and Audrey were like old friends.

“We’ve lived in so many cities,” Audrey said with a tired shrug. “Now
we’re bound for L.A.” At Judy’s look of interrogation, she added, “Los
Angeles.”

“We’d only just bought a house in Omaha. Now it’s up for sale! Honestly,
my father says his boss moves him around like a piece on a
checkerboard!”

Judy was sympathetic. “I thought only musicians move so much.”

“Musicians? You?”

“No,” Judy answered quickly. “My mother and father. That’s why we’re
going to Aspen. Mother’s a singer and Father plays the viola. And they
always practice at home—Mother with her accompanist and Father and his
quartet—can you imagine what it’s like sometimes?”

“Awful! How can you stand it?”

“You get used to it. Sometimes, I must admit, it’s very nice.”

“Have you a job or something out in Aspen?”

“Not exactly a job, but I—I—er—expect to act—in one of those little
summer theaters,” Judy spoke diffidently, but she couldn’t quite conceal
her exultation.

Audrey was impressed. “An actress! But you don’t look like one!”

“Well, you know, Audrey, with grease paint and makeup—besides, I
probably will have the most minute role,” she smiled with a deprecating
little gesture.

Audrey returned to her own problems. “I don’t mind telling you, it is a
tragedy for me to leave Omaha.”

Judy was about to inquire what she meant by those solemn words when a
big voice boomed behind them.

“You can see the broken-down, deserted cabins halfway up the mountains.”

The girls turned toward the voice. A short, stocky man was standing near
them, a pair of field glasses in one hand and pointing to the mountains
with the other.

Judy smiled out of politeness and he returned her smile.

“Like to have a peek?” He handed her the glasses. She too could see the
trails and dilapidated shacks that led to the mines.

“Here, Audrey, you look.”

“Oh, yes, I see them,” Audrey said, returning the glasses to the owner.

“And do you know what was in those mines?” the man continued in a
stentorian voice. “Gold! That’s what brought them to Colorado, gold!”

“I thought it was silver,” Judy said quietly. “My grandfather told me
that silver—”

She got no further. She could hear the subdued chuckling of the
passengers.

“You’re right, Miss, but only half right. First they came for gold, then
for silver. Tell that to your grandpa!”

He went on talking, explaining.... Judy’s eyes ached from the sun that
blazed through the glass dome, and her neck was stiff from looking and
straining.

“Attention, please!” The voice of the loudspeaker broke in on the man’s
eloquence. “When we reach the next station, there will be a wait of
twenty minutes for the automatic car washing. This process will be of
interest to our passengers.”

The two girls had only one thought, to get off the train and stretch
their legs. Arm in arm they walked down the long platform, soon
engrossed in their former conversation.

“The reason I hated to leave Omaha was not because of the new house, but
because I was going steady with a boy! Now we’re separated, maybe
forever.”

Judy pressed Audrey’s hand to indicate how deeply she understood.

With slow, leisurely steps they walked back, remembering the car
washing. They looked down the tracks. The train had vanished.

“What will we do?”

“And we haven’t any money to telegraph or anything,” Judy waved her
empty purse. A stone would have been moved by that gesture.

“What’s the matter, girls?” A nice-looking gentleman, standing nearby,
having heard their cries of alarm, smilingly faced them.

“The train!” they stammered in one breath. “It’s gone!”

“I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” his mouth twitched as if he wanted to
laugh. “The train is down a siding, about a mile, having that grand
wash. Remember? It’ll come back.”

The girls were too miserable to talk. They kept staring down the empty
tracks, not quite believing, yet hoping the train would return.

At last the train, beautifully clean, slid down the tracks before them.
The girls stood together on the train as it began to move. “Be sure to
write,” Judy said tensely. “Remember, everything about him.” Addresses
were hurriedly exchanged. Feeling almost like sisters who have just met,
only to be cruelly torn apart, they kissed fondly and separated, Audrey
to her car and Judy to the Vista Dome where she had left her parents
peacefully sleeping.

Glenwood Springs, the railroad station for Aspen, was the next stop. The
Luries hurried back to their car.

Their berths were made up and the luggage was once again piled on the
seats and under them. Mr. Lurie methodically counted them. “One, two,
three—where’s the viola? I don’t see it!—” His voice was almost a gasp.

“The porter has probably taken it out with our large case,” Minna said
confidently, but her face was as white as his. “I’ll ring for him.”

The porter appeared. “Where’s my viola?” Mr. Lurie asked in a voice that
scarcely concealed his rage.

“Your what, Sir?” the porter asked calmly.

“My viola,” Mr. Lurie snapped. “It looks like a violin, only larger. It
was in a black case. It’s not here. We’ve looked everywhere.” His voice
shook. “Did you take it out with any other baggage?”

The porter shook his head. “I remember that violin thing. Just took the
things from the bed, laid them down while I made up the berths.”

“And why did you make up my berth? Didn’t I ask you to leave it alone?”

“But I has to make up the berths,” the porter argued mildly.

“That berth down there isn’t made up,” Mr. Lurie’s eyes flashed as he
pointed to the one that still had its curtains drawn.

As if startled by the turmoil, the head of an elderly woman, her hair
secured in a pink net, suddenly protruded from the curtains.

“Porter,” she asked querulously, “how many times must I ring? You
promised to bring my tray an hour ago.”

“I know, Ma’am, I was just fixing to bring it when this gentleman here
got some trouble.”

A slow smile broke over the porter’s face. “I recollect now—everyone
leaving at one time to get to the Vista Dome. I piled things everywhere.
That lady down there, I couldn’t make up her berth. She was feeling
poorly. When she went into the ladies’ lounge, I naturally set a lot of
things in her upper berth. It was empty. Then she comes back unexpected
and—”

“Instead of all this palaver,” Mr. Lurie interrupted, “will you kindly
see if it is there?”

“Pardon me, Ma’am,” and with a practiced hand he reached into the upper
berth and drew out the black case of the viola.

“There you are, Sir. No harm done. Never lost a thing in all my—”

“Thank Heaven!” Mr. Lurie said fervently, wiping the beads of
perspiration from his face.

“You have no idea, Porter, what the loss of that instrument could mean
to me. You were negligent,” Mr. Lurie reiterated, not nearly so
belligerently, “but the main thing is that it was found.”

Everybody smiled with relief. The train was slowing down. Judy and her
parents said good-bye to their fellow passengers and a few minutes later
they were standing on the platform.

Judy watched the long train slowly pull away. It took on speed and was
soon lost to sight.

“Come on, Judy,” her mother called impatiently, “stop dreaming. We still
have a short bus ride to Aspen.”




                                   4
                         FIRST GLIMPSE OF ASPEN


The short ride to Aspen proved to be forty miles!

A tall, ungainly youth, his good-natured face topped by thick red hair,
walked unerringly to the man carrying the musical instrument.

“Mr. Lurie?”

Mr. Lurie nodded.

“I’m Fran,” the boy smiled. “I’m to drive you to Aspen.”

“Good,” and with an answering smile, Mr. Lurie introduced him to Mrs.
Lurie and Judy. Fran helped with the luggage as well as with the cartons
already arrived, and piloted them to the car.

It was a neat little bus, and its name gaily painted in red letters,
“Little Percent,” was visible through the film of dust that covered the
car like a blanket.

“That’s an odd name,” Mr. Lurie commented.

“Not for Aspen. There was once a mine called ‘Little Percent.’ Now it’s
the name of the only taxi business around here. Nearly everything here
is named after the silver mines—Little Annie, The Smuggler. Now they’re
just fancy eating places.”

As Judy was about to take her seat with her parents, Fran said
offhandedly, “Maybe you’d better sit up front with me. No sense all
being crowded in there with all that baggage.”

Fran put his foot on the gas and they were soon speeding along a dirt
road, the dust almost choking them.

“Sorry about the dust,” Fran said over his shoulder. “We haven’t had a
drop of rain in weeks.”

They rounded curves on one wheel and Fran seemed to enjoy Judy’s
terrified “Oh’s!” as they edged a precipice with only inches to spare.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared!” he smiled jovially. “This is nothing!
Wait until sometime you go up Independence Pass. There you really have
to watch your bus.”

“I love mountains. I’ve climbed them since I was a child,” Judy said
stiffly. “But racing over ledges is something different. You can trust
your feet—that’s more than you can say about a car.”

Barely glancing at the road, Fran gazed obliquely at Judy with new
interest. “If you like mountain climbing, you’ll be crazy about Aspen.”

“Really? I thought everyone came here to study music, or play in the
orchestra, or sing!”

“We get lots of that kind all summer. And besides them there are the
thousands who come to listen and go to lectures every night!”

He maneuvered another hairpin curve, taking no notice of a shuddering
“Oh!” this time from Mrs. Lurie. “But the real excitement,” he went on,
“the real money spent around here is for skiing. From fall right up to
spring! That’s a sport. Skiing!” His face glowed.

“How do you find time to ski?” Judy asked.

“What do you mean? You might as well ask how one finds time to eat!”

Mrs. Lurie leaned forward and tapped her daughter on the shoulder.
“Don’t you think you should let Fran concentrate on his driving instead
of annoying him with your chatter?”

“I barely opened my mouth!” Judy said indignantly, as she turned around.
“Blaming me!—” When she saw the strained look on her mother’s face, she
nudged Fran and told him to take it easy. He was making her mother
nervous.

The clouds of dust were finally left behind and they approached Aspen
over a bumpy, paved road.

“See that enormous white tent?” Fran said, unconsciously assuming the
role of a driver of a guided tour. “That’s where all the big concerts
are given. The supports inside the tent are a bright orange and the
cushions of the seats are blue. Very pretty!”

And the Luries obediently looked, eager to get their first glimpse of
the canvas concert hall they were to know so well.

“Cost the music people about ten thousand dollars,” the irrepressible
Fran continued.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Mrs. Lurie echoed. “How did they manage to raise
such a large sum of money?”

Fran slowed the car, his head turned toward his uneasy passengers behind
him. “Well, for one thing, there’s a Mr. Paepcke. He’s the president of
a paper container corporation—a millionaire! It was his idea to make
Aspen a music center.”

“Yes. I’ve heard of him,” Mr. Lurie replied. “He seems to be quite a
person. In fact, I understand that since the Aspen Music
Associates—that’s the new name for the Music Festival—” he told his
wife, “—since they now can get contributions to cover the deficit, Mr.
Paepcke has turned his attention to other projects.”

“That’s right, Mr. Lurie. He’s just crazy about culture! Has paintings
and art exhibits, even highbrow lectures!” Fran turned down a side
street, stopping the car. “I thought I could show you his latest—but
it’s too far out of our way. He’s built a large, plush hotel, just for
businessmen when they come here for vacation. He expects them to go to
the lectures he’s arranged, highbrow stuff—philosophy and that sort of
thing, so they shouldn’t waste their time while on vacation!” Fran shook
his head over the strange, inexplicable notions of Mr. Paepcke.

“A very remarkable idea,” Mr. Lurie said thoughtfully. “To be able to
use one’s hours of leisure on vacation for the things one never has time
for—”

“I bet they’ll still come here just to ski, anyhow, when there’s any
snow,” Fran said with a grin.

They were driving through many of the principal streets of Aspen. It was
a small town that nestled in a lovely green valley between two great
mountains: Aspen and Red, Fran named them. He pointed to some houses
high up the mountain, barely visible because of the forests. “Imagine
people building big homes up there because the town’s too crowded! The
road is so steep only the jeeps can make it. A good car gets used up in
no time.”

They continued to drive slowly through the town. Houses of all shapes
and styles of architecture were huddled together. Some were old with
pointed roofs, gables, and bulging bay windows. Mr. Lurie admired the
ones patterned after Swiss chalets, happy reminders of a boyhood
vacation in Switzerland. None of the Luries looked with favor on the
newer houses, squat, flat-roofed dwellings with large picture windows.

“They are out of place in this lovely mountain setting,” Mrs. Lurie
said, but added as an afterthought, “but they’re probably divine to live
in.”

Fran, undiscouraged by his passengers’ preoccupation with houses old and
new, continued to enlighten them.

“That’s where they print the _Aspen Times_,” and he pointed out a wooden
structure reminiscent of an earlier era. “It comes out once a week, but
it’s been right here since the silver boom days.”

Judy had made several attempts to break in on Fran’s monologue. She
thought quickly. “By the way,” she said with elaborate nonchalance, “You
wouldn’t happen to know where that cute little theater is—I’m surprised
you didn’t point that out!”

“Oh, the Isis! We didn’t happen to pass it. But they have movies
there—the greatest!” Judy gave up, as Fran continued.

“That big gray stone building next to it is the Jerome Hotel. When they
built it in 1881, it was a show place. That’s when silver was all there
was in Aspen. It was elegant! It’s still the finest place in Aspen,
fixed up modern today with a half dozen or more annexes. And it’s got a
swimming pool!” he added impressively.

“Can anyone use the pool?” Judy asked, “or is it just for the hotel
guests?”

“It’s mostly for the guests, but the music festival people get in
somehow.”

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

They had now reached the end of town and Fran stopped in front of a
plain little cottage with an overhanging veranda. “Here we are,” he
said, jumping out to unload the car.

“Is that ours?” Judy asked, considerably let down. But her mother, it
was apparent, felt differently.

“Isn’t it lovely, John!” she exclaimed. “Real Victorian. Look at that
fine old grille railing on the roof—”

Mrs. Lurie lost no time in entering the house, her husband following.
She had to know at once.

There it was, a large, ebony, upright piano that dwarfed the parlor
sprinkled liberally with overstuffed chairs and a small sofa, more
chairs, tables with artificial flowers, lamps of all kinds. But Mrs.
Lurie was radiant.

“They gave us the piano after all!”

“Yes, darling,” her husband said, equally happy. “Perhaps all that
letter-writing helped.” Then he frowned as if he suddenly remembered.
“It may not prove an unmixed blessing. Remember the conditions? Students
must be permitted to practice any hour of the day.” He smiled, “Knowing
how pressed they are for practice space, they’ll probably start at
dawn!”

But Mrs. Lurie’s enthusiasm remained undampened. She’d have her two
hours!

Meanwhile Fran brought up the last of the cartons and luggage and set
them on the porch where Judy was gazing raptly at the mountains.

“Any time you want to climb,” he said shyly.

“I’d love to, but I expect to be rather busy—I’m going to act.” She
paused for the effect.

Fran looked puzzled. “Where?”

“Right here in Aspen, at the Barn.”

“You mean Mr. Crowley’s summer theater?”

“That’s right. I’m in the company.” Languorously, the girl smoothed back
a few wisps of hair in an unmistakably theatrical gesture.

Fran grinned. “I guessed you were kidding.”

“Kidding!” Judy frowned indignantly. “It happens to be true. Mr. Crowley
is a friend of my father and he himself arranged for me to join his
theater.”

“When was that?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Oh! That explains it.”

A strange note in the boy’s voice caught Judy’s attention. “Explains
what?” she asked cautiously.

“It’s funny you didn’t hear about it,” Fran muttered. He eyed her
unhappily. “There isn’t going to be any summer theater. Mr. Crowley
couldn’t raise enough money to swing it. He went back to Denver three
days ago.”

“Oh!” Judy felt the blood mounting to her face. There were questions she
wanted to ask but she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“I’m sorry about it, kid,” Fran murmured. “But don’t let it get you
down. Maybe next year Crowley will raise the money and you’ll be back as
leading lady.” He edged off the porch back to his bus. “Aspen isn’t a
bad place, even without a theater. You’ll have a lot of fun. And don’t
forget, whenever you want to climb—” He was at the wheel racing the
motor. The bus pulled away, gathered speed, and disappeared around the
corner far up the street. Slowly, Judy turned and dragged herself into
the house.

“Judy? Judy? Where are you?”

“You haven’t seen the house! How do you like the piano? Ugly, but it has
a wonderful tone! From what I just learned about the students coming
here to practice, you’ll escape playing without even a struggle,” her
mother rattled on.

“Oh, I’ll play sometimes.”

It was not only the voice bordering on despair but her features
distorted in pain that made her father eye her keenly.

“Judy, why this face of gloom on this lovely, happy occasion?”

“Fran just told me that the theater is all washed up—that Mr. Crowley
went back to Denver—” She couldn’t go on.

A fleeting uncertainty passed over Minna’s face but her father smiled
reassuringly.

“I’d like to know one way or the other. Can’t you telephone or
telegraph—or something,” the girl pleaded.

“The opening is probably postponed!” her father said convincingly. “That
often happens with a new venture. Of course Jim went to Denver—that’s
where he has all his connections.” Again he gave her that warm,
reassuring smile. “Suppose you don’t get started for a week or two! So
much the better. You’ll get a chance to discover Aspen, walking miles in
this wonderful, bracing climate and have fun with us.”

“You’re a real cure for the blues, Father. Grandma once called you the
incurable optimist.”

Her father raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound particularly
complimentary!”

“But it was meant in the nicest way. Grandma said Minna was a worrier
and that she was lucky to be married to a man like you.”

By nightfall, basic unpacking was finished and, with no time or
opportunity to purchase food, they decided to go out for dinner. They
walked aimlessly through several streets trying to discover one of the
colorful restaurants Fran had mentioned—Little Nell, Golden Horn,
Mario’s. From the latter, as they stood on the sidewalk, voices were
heard singing operatic arias! That settled it. They went in.

Judy’s parents were enchanted not only by the atmosphere but even more
by the waiters who sang as they served and again at interludes between
courses. The food was new and exotic and Judy ate with rapt enjoyment,
the problem of Mr. Crowley and the theater temporarily forgotten.

She glanced occasionally at her mother and father. They were
incomprehensible! Their food grew cold as they talked to the waiters.
Suppose they were studying opera at the Aspen Music School! Her father
finally succumbed to the aroma of the good-smelling dinner but her
mother, between listening and applauding, found no chance to eat.

“I like opera, Father,” Judy told him, savoring the last mouthful on her
plate. “Remember how I adored ‘Pagliacci’ when I heard it at the
Metropolitan Opera House with Grandma and Grandpa! There was scenery and
costumes, and what a story! That was Opera!”

Her father laughed. “A lover of music doesn’t need trappings of scenery
and costume to enjoy opera. Your mother would rather sing or listen to
singing than eat.”

Judy shook her head. “After all,” she argued, “when you eat, you should
enjoy eating, not have to listen—to applaud.”

“Minna,” John addressed his wife, “I think Judy has a point there.
Please eat your dinner before it’s utterly spoiled.”

They returned from Mario’s relaxed and gay, Minna still humming some of
the melodies. Opening the screen door, a letter fell on the porch. Judy
picked it up, quickly glancing at the name of the sender.

“It’s a special delivery from Mr. Crowley, Father, for you.” Her face
paled.

Mr. Lurie read it silently while his daughter watched the pained
disappointment deepen on his face.

“Judy dear,” he hesitated for a moment then went on quickly as if
wishing to have the unhappy business over as fast as possible. “It seems
Fran was right. There will be no summer theater,” and he handed her the
letter. She read, tears blurring the words. “The backers faded away....
I’m so sorry about your daughter. I know how these kids are, what a
disappointment this must be. Tell her next year, cross my heart....”

Judy was desolate. It wasn’t just the disappointment at not having the
opportunity to act: that was bad enough. But what would she do with
herself in Aspen for a whole summer? The weeks ahead loomed empty and
void.

Her parents tried to cheer her up. “There’s a whole new world for you to
discover out here,” her father said. “A girl with your curiosity and
interests needn’t have a dull moment.”

“And I’m sure there are young people your age in Aspen,” her mother
added. “With a little effort, you won’t have any trouble finding
companions.”

Judy didn’t argue with them. What was the use? They had tried their
best. It wasn’t their fault that Mr. Crowley’s theater had fallen
through. “I have to make the best of it,” she said, and added
realistically, “Don’t make them miserable.” Then she further cautioned
herself, “Assume a virtue, if you have it not.”

The next few days passed quickly, even for Judy. The house had to be
made livable. “The kitchen is as old as Methuselah,” Mrs. Lurie said,
“and has the conveniences of the Stone Age.” But once everything was
done and food supplies stocked, Judy found her parents still “tearing
around like mad,” a phrase she used in her recent letter to her
grandparents.

There were faculty meetings, rehearsals to be arranged. John had to set
up programs for his newly organized quartet, and Minna was in daily
conference with Mme. Rousse and her pupils.

After four days of comparative quiet, the music students of the School
began to arrive with clockwork regularity at two-hour intervals. Judy
saw them sometimes, deadly serious as they rushed out after practice to
some other task or perhaps to a date. They were intent and enthusiastic
young people but to Judy they seemed hoary with age and
responsibilities.

For want of anything better to do, she threw herself into organizing the
household regime. Washing dishes and making beds were her department.
Her father used the carpet-sweeper and mopped up the kitchen floor with
giant strokes more suitable for a shuffleboard. There was laundry for
Minna to iron whenever someone remembered to borrow a car and call for
their bundle at the laundromat.

Judy never wondered how her mother managed to prepare their meals. Mrs.
Lurie did that and many other things besides with an ease, a sleight of
hand that was slightly deceptive. She worked hard to get everything done
and yet find time for her arduous profession. She had set herself the
task of singing in opera, a dream possible of realization here at Aspen,
but she doggedly pursued her domestic tasks. For breakfast she whipped
up some wonderful pancakes and for sheer quantity consumption, Judy held
the family record. Lunch was tuna fish, an egg, or a salad, usually
prepared by Judy for herself. Dinners meant hamburgers or chops broiled
over their outside grille, with soup and vegetables frozen or out of a
can, milk, and fresh fruit. Once a week she went all out to bake a
chicken or something in a casserole, which she optimistically expected
to see them through for days. It rarely did.

New friends and some old ones dropped in nearly every night, that is,
when there were neither lectures nor concerts scheduled. It was a busy,
full life for Judy’s parents.

But to Judy, the prospect of spending an entire summer doing simple
household chores and wandering about sightseeing alone was far from
cheering.

Each morning her mother left the house, visibly disturbed. “Judy dear,
I’m planning to take you to the pool a few afternoons during the week.
We’re dying to go ourselves. It’s already past nine. We’ve got to rush.
Good-bye, darling.” The door closed. A moment later her mother’s head
reappeared at the door.

“Forget anything, Mother?”

“No, dear. I just wanted to tell you that once our schedules are
definitely arranged, we won’t be so hectically busy.” There was the
impatient honking of a horn from the car picking them up. Her mother
hurriedly left.

Another week passed, and there was no change in the absorbing activity
in the lives of Minna and John Lurie. There were many famous people in
Aspen, artists, musicians, composers, and to Judy it seemed her parents
had to meet them all!

Even during dinner in the evening, they were involved in their own
interests, often trying to draw Judy into their conversation. Separated
during much of the day by their individual activities, they talked with
enthusiasm of discovering this one or that one. But Judy was bursting to
tell them of her discoveries: the Chairlift where she spent many hours
each day, eating her lunch or writing letters. Sometimes she sketched
the tourists as they jumped on the moving chairs of the Lift and
disappeared among the lofty mountains.

“Yes,” her mother said absently, “we know the Chairlift. We pass it
every day.”

“Some day we’ll go up and see that famous sundeck thirteen thousand feet
high,” her father casually promised and went on talking of other
matters.

“Now this Mr. William Primrose. I’ve spoken of him before, Judy. He’s
the greatest viola player in the world!” Her father’s eyes shone with
the adulation he felt for this great artist. “He’s to be the soloist at
several of the Festival concerts. You’ll be with us, Judy—something
you’ll remember all your life!”

Nor was her mother to be outdone. “Judy, you’ll never know how wonderful
the clarinet can be until you hear Reginald Kell! When he plays, his
tone more nearly resembles the human voice than anything in the world—so
delicate, so pure! He’s the greatest, the most celebrated clarinetist!”

They tried to interest her in Darius Milhaud, the greatest living
composer of modern music.

“Everyone you and Father mention seems to be the greatest,” Judy had
interrupted, a wicked gleam in her eye. She remembered the many reproofs
she had received for using just such superlatives.

“But they just happen to be,” her father said, brushing her remark
aside. “Darius Milhaud,” he began but stopped, noticing the blank look
on Judy’s face.

“You must have heard his music at concerts or on the radio!” her mother
interjected.

As Judy shook her head, her father went on patiently.

“He’s a very great composer of modern music, a Frenchman, and teaches
conducting and composition to advanced students. It’s a great honor to
have such a man on our faculty!”

He looked at his daughter hopefully. She seemed interested at last.

“What I tried to tell you before you interrupted me, this great man is
coming to our house next week. He is permitting my quartet and me to
play his newest composition in manuscript form. He’s coming with his
wife, a former actress, a fine artist in her own right.”

For a week they talked of nothing else. Whom among their friends should
they invite? Who would call for the composer and his wife, since it was
well known he walked little? What should they serve after the music? The
house must shine and, indeed, late in the night John polished floors and
furniture until they gleamed.

When the great evening came, the little parlor was crowded with friends
long before the honored guests arrived.

As Darius Milhaud walked into the room accompanied by his charming wife,
everyone rose. Milhaud walked slowly; his heavy body was crippled by
arthritis and he leaned heavily on the arm of his wife.

He greeted Minna and John Lurie warmly and with a few pleasant words to
the guests put everyone at ease—that is, everyone except Judy, who
stared uncomfortably at the composer’s face, so white and
unhealthy-looking.

After some general talk, Milhaud gave the signal and the music began.
The composition took nearly an hour and to Judy, accustomed to the more
melodic harmonies of an older school, the music was extremely trying.
She was convinced that the quartet, including her father, was playing
wrong notes! Otherwise how to account for such terrible sounds? She
squirmed wretchedly on the small couch, wedged in by former students of
Milhaud who, judging by the expression on their faces, were literally in
heaven! For a few blissful moments Judy found herself dozing, only to be
rudely wakened by a dissonance that shattered her.

But she found compensation at last! She watched the composer. She
couldn’t take her eyes off his hands. How beautiful they were as he
moved them gently, guiding the players. She no longer tried to listen to
music she neither liked nor understood. She glanced at Mrs. Milhaud and
was deeply touched. There was something in her face, her eyes, her whole
being, fastened upon her husband. As the hour advanced and the room grew
chilly, she unobtrusively rose and put a plaid shawl upon her husband’s
knees. Seeing them so, husband and wife, Judy somehow thought of her
grandparents.

The piece was finished. Everyone clapped and shouted “Bravo!” “It was
grand!” “A memorable performance!” “Sure to be an astounding success!”

But the Luries did not have to entertain a celebrity to have music in
their home. Friends came to spend a social evening, but invariably
brought with them their musical instruments—bass fiddle, cello, violin,
clarinet—and stacked them on a bed or on chairs. Everyone cheerfully
pushed the parlor furniture about, carried the music stands from the
closet under the hall stairs, switched lamps from there to here for
better lighting. There was talk, gossip of the great ones, a little
politics and world affairs, but mostly music.

Judy went to her room shortly after the first pleasant greetings were
over. Sometimes she fell asleep in spite of the music played fortissimo
right under her room.

She could always tell when it was eleven o’clock, by the clatter of the
teacups. Her mother was serving coffee and cake. Why are musicians
always so hungry, she wondered, even as she bit greedily into a large
slice of cake her mother had thoughtfully brought her.

She opened her diary. Among its pages lay the letter from Mr. Crowley.
She read it again, then briefly wrote in her diary.

“I went to the Theater Barn yesterday, just to see it! It was just as I
dreamed it would be, except the heavy padlock on the door and the sign
‘For Rent.’ Poor Mr. Crowley!”

And it seemed to Judy that she had no sooner fallen sound asleep when
she was awakened by the crash of chords. The early-bird piano student
had arrived for morning practice.




                                   5
                     A RUDE YET PLEASANT AWAKENING


By the end of the second week Judy knew every street in Aspen. She had
stumbled over the uneven slabs of stone that passed for sidewalks while
gazing absently into shop windows displaying curious articles imported
from all over the world.

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

She had even ventured beyond the confines of the town itself and paid
her own visit to the Tent, before her official attendance at a concert.
How inadequate had been Fran’s “Very pretty!” It was stunning. The
sunshine filtering through the open flap bathed the colored sides of the
tent and supports in luscious gold.

Not more than a few hundred yards from the Tent was a queer-looking
building of octagonal design. Approaching it, she asked one of the
bystanders, “What do they do in there?”

“Lectures,” was the terse reply. “It’s the Seminar Building. But don’t
try to listen in on them,” he said, apparently amused at the expression
on Judy’s keen and inquisitive face.

“I see you’ve got a sketch pad,” he went on. “If you are interested in
art, you’ll find the walls lined with paintings—American subjects—very
fine.” and with a nod, he was gone.

She went in and remained, examining the paintings long after the
students and visitors left.

One day she got up enough courage to go into the Jerome Hotel. Assuming
an air of confidence, which she was far from feeling, she followed some
ladies entering the lobby and doggedly kept at their heels until they
reached the pool.

How blue it looked under the dazzling sun! As fresh and cool as the
forests on Aspen Mountain not far in the distance! Guests sat on the
lawn beside the pool, their sunburnt bodies shaded by bright, colored
umbrellas. They were laughing, talking, eating.... Shouts from the pool.
She felt so alone. It was not the first time she recalled her
grandmother’s words.

Monday morning came. Would this be another week of half-kept promises?

At breakfast her mother said brightly, “Judy, I have some news for you.
I just heard about a camp and I met the girl who runs it. She’s charming
and I took such a fancy to her.”

“A camp? Here in Aspen?” Judy asked, interested, but a little cautious.
“What kind of a camp?”

“It’s a day camp. The hours are from eight-thirty to one o’clock, and
it’s just been a Godsend to the mothers and the children. It’s called
the Festival Day Camp.”

Judy’s face was a study. Her mother couldn’t possibly mean those little
tots in the station wagon she had frequently passed on the road—the
youngsters noisily piping their camp song, “We’re the Festival Day Camp,
F-E-S-T-I-V-A-L.”

“How old are the children?”

Mrs. Lurie’s enthusiasm was slightly chilled by the ominous look on her
daughter’s face. “Some are quite young, but,” she added hurriedly, “Mrs.
Freiborg’s daughter is ten, possibly eleven. I understand they do
interesting, creative things.” Mrs. Lurie found it difficult to go on.
“It could be fun,” she finished on a note that sounded more like a dirge
than a happy conviction.

“What would I be doing at such a camp!” Judy asked scathingly. “Please
don’t worry about me, Mother. I am all right as I am.”

“Let’s discuss it later,” her mother pleaded. “This afternoon Mrs.
Freiborg is definitely going to pick us up on her way to the pool.”

“Stop scowling, Judy,” her father said, displeased at Judy’s attitude.
“Lynne, who runs it, is beautiful and extremely capable. Young as she
is, she’s had years of experience. You won’t be just a camper, you’ll
get to know Lynne. Her husband is one of the youngest men in our
orchestra. They’re a delightful young couple. Mother has practically
said you would go. We’re happy to spend the money.” He patted Judy’s
shoulder affectionately. “At least you won’t be wandering around Aspen
like a lost sheep.”

“But, Father, how can you expect me to go to a camp with such infants?”

“Suppose they are younger than you?” her father asked, trying to see
Judy’s point of view. “What of it? While they carry on their activities,
you can be doing other things on your own. Differences in age don’t
matter as much as you think. We have youngsters and graybeards in our
classes. Give it a try.” At the door he paused, “You get out of anything
what you put into it.”

Still smarting under the unaccustomed pressure her parents were trying
to exert, Judy started making her lunch. In her resentment she forgot
the hours, the days of loneliness. She wrapped her sandwich and put it
in her bag with pad, pencils, crayons, and change purse. With that awful
camp looming on the not too distant horizon, she was determined to have
a really good time today. Something exciting! But what? She couldn’t
climb mountains by herself. Besides, all the trails were miles away. For
a moment she considered Fran and as quickly dismissed him. He was busy
all day riding the bus. All he ever did was to wave his hand and smile
as he passed her.

With the collapse of her plans to act, other means of retrieving the
summer from “total loss” occasionally occurred to her. A job. Audrey, in
a letter, described hers with such loving detail as quite to overshadow
the meager news about her erstwhile boy friend.

A job? Judy tried, but her disappointing attempts always followed the
same pattern.

“Have you any experience?” “None?” “Sorry.” or “We have all the help we
need. You must apply early in Aspen, long before the season.”

Judy surrendered. Actually she was enjoying this unexpected leisure.
Lonesome sometimes? Yes, but free, free to wander about....

Entering the shop of Berko Studio, she exhausted the patience of the
elderly salesman before she selected her two views of Aspen and the
mountains nearby. How much there was to see in this wonderful world of
the Rockies! A thought flashed through her mind. Why not come back with
an article for the _The Plow_, her high school paper? The October issue
was always lavishly devoted to a Vacation Series.

“My Summer in Aspen.” She shook her head. What had she done that was
interesting? Precisely nothing—yet.

“Aspen Past and Present.” Decidedly better, she thought. But it had its
drawbacks. You must have an encyclopedia or some means to acquire
information. She meditated. She had finished every book she owned. The
library! She slung her bag over her shoulder, thankful that Aspen had
one!

She reached the library in a half-hour’s brisk walk and found to her
surprise it was an insignificant corner of a large red brick structure,
“The Aspen Bank.” Thinking she must be mistaken, she circled the block
only to discover the bank building had still another entrance with an
inconspicuous sign, “Wheeler Opera House, 1881.” She stood there
puzzled. Could this be the opera house where world-famous singers and
actors had appeared in the old mining days? Why, only the other night
her father had brought home some colored photographs. Together they had
fairly drooled over the plush and gold interior, more than four hundred
gilt chairs in the orchestra, stage boxes upholstered in red plush. Her
mother had remarked with chilling candor, “It’s nothing like it used to
be. It was twice burnt down and twice restored.... We’re going there on
Thursday night. The Juillard Quartet is giving a Lecture—Recital. You’ll
see it then.”

“It’ll be a wonderful evening,” her father promised, “and I’ll take you
on a personally conducted tour of the House.”

Judy retraced her steps. The Opera House could wait.

A single room lined with books—that was the library! A placard
prominently placed on the wall cautioned “Silence.” The only person in
the room besides herself was the librarian, sitting at her desk and
looking rather forbidding in her horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

Judy searched the shelves. Still under the spell of the old mining days,
she selected _Aspen and the Silver Kings_. It was a large, heavy book,
its text liberally interwoven with pictures. She sat down at a table to
examine it more leisurely. Mule teams with heavy wagons carrying the
silver ore over Independence Pass, a road thirteen thousand feet high. A
trip over this scenic wonder was, even to the passengers in Kit Carson’s
stage coach, a fearsome thing. A hut near one of the mine shafts. Five
men playing cards. A snow slide and the five were buried under
twenty-five feet of snow.

She turned the pages. The coming of the first railroad, a queer-looking
train pulled by two engines, smoke belching from its odd-looking
funnels; people rushed down to the depot with flags, yelling themselves
hoarse. It was a great day. Ore could now be moved by train!

Judy cheerfully skipped the pages. She still hoped for something more
personal, maybe romantic. It was the human element she anxiously sought.

She read on. Under the intriguing title, “Horace Tabor, the man who
preferred love and Baby Doe to his silver empire,” Judy recognized
romance. This was the sort of pioneer life that appealed to her!

She looked at Tabor’s picture, a tall, well-built man with fine features
and a long silky mustache. While not exactly a Don Juan, he was
devotedly loved by two women, both of them interesting characters.

Augusta, his wife, came with Horace Tabor from Maine. In Leadville they
opened a general store and in a short time Horace became postmaster and
then mayor of the seventy shanties that comprised Leadville at that
time. Augusta, even as the mayor’s wife, took in boarders to help with
the family budget. Tabor generously staked the miners to food, picks,
shovels, dynamite, anything they needed to get on with their
prospecting. Augusta objected to his easy-going ways. Money was hard to
make and they often quarreled.

But Tabor in staking the miners got a share in whatever they found. The
mines began to pay off and Tabor became rich. From “Little Pittsburgh”
alone he made five hundred thousand dollars in fifteen months. He bought
other mines. He was civic-minded, gave Leadville the Opera House and a
Grand Opera House to Denver, was spoken of as the future United States
Senator. But the Tabors were unhappy and their quarrels increased.

At the age of forty-seven he met the beautiful blonde, Mrs. Harvey Doe,
known as Baby Doe. It was love at first sight! Tabor begged Augusta to
give him a divorce. She refused. He offered her mines, properties.
“Never,” she repeated. After five years of wrangling in court, she gave
him the divorce and accepted the mines. “Some day,” she told the
newspapers, “Tabor will return to me when that blonde hussy grows tired
of him.”

Judy wondered what became of Baby Doe. No doubt, somewhere among the
pages of the book something more would be told.

She went over to the desk. “I’d like to take this book home.” The
librarian looked at the title and raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you think
this is a little technical?” she smiled indulgently. “We have a copy of
_Lorna Doone_, _Jane Eyre_.”

“Thank you,” Judy smiled, “but I read those.”

“Dickens?” The librarian suggested helpfully.

“This book’s history, isn’t it?” Judy said, holding the book
possessively. “I like history and since I’m staying in Aspen, I think I
ought to look into—”

“Very well,” the librarian said kindly. “How shall I make out the card?
There’s a deposit of one dollar, which will be returned to you when you
leave Aspen.”

“A dollar!” Judy exclaimed. To give up so much money even if only
temporarily—she emptied the contents of her bag on the librarian’s desk,
although she knew all the time that it contained only twenty-five cents.

“May I take the book for a quarter and bring the rest of it tomorrow?”

“No, dear. You come tomorrow and in the meantime I’ll put the book aside
for you, although,” she added with a smile, “no one has taken it from
the shelf in years.” Her smile was so friendly, Judy wondered how she
could have thought her grim and forbidding.

Judy stood there in a quandary. It was much too early to go anywhere for
her lunch and she no longer wished to remain in the library. The Wheeler
Opera House again obtruded itself upon her thoughts. It was just around
the block. Since she was here—

“Miss...” Judy began. “Wilkes,” the librarian finished for her.

“Miss Wilkes,” Judy began again, “would it be all right for me to go
into the Opera House now? That is, is one permitted to just go in to
look around?”

“Yes, of course. The entrance is at the extreme end of the bank
building. There’s a sign, ‘Wheeler Opera House.’”

“Yes, I saw the sign.”

“The Opera House is at the very top of the building. It’s a steep climb
and the door may be locked, but you can try.”

Judy felt grateful to the librarian who had assisted her in this happy
solution. She could spend an hour “exploring,” her favorite expression
for any walk or errand in Aspen. She reached the entrance of the Opera
House and ran up the wooden steps that led into the hall. It was dingy,
not in the least what she had expected. An enormous, an apparently
never-ending flight of stairs appeared ahead of her. Worse than anything
was the deafening sound of musical instruments coming at her like waves
from every part of the building, like a giant orchestra forever tuning
up. As she stood there irresolute a pianist could be heard, the music
coming from under the staircase. For a little while it drowned out the
din of the other players.

A light now dawned on Judy. This was where the students practiced! She
recalled her father speaking of them as the lucky ones who didn’t have
to go to private homes such as theirs. He surely must have been joking!
Bank, library, practice rooms, and Opera House, all in one old brick
building! Her eyes measured the staircase. She began to climb and
increased her speed to get there quickly. By the time she reached the
landing, she was out of breath. More doors leading to more practice
rooms. If anything, the cacophony had increased.

Another staircase stretched ahead, seemingly to go to the roof. She
slowly ascended. The sounds of the instruments grew muffled, then almost
ceased. On the landing there was only one door, marked “Entrance.” She
gently turned the knob, pushed the massive door, and stepped within.
There was a prolonged whine as the door closed behind her. She stood
there, blinking at the glare of white lights on the stage. Four
musicians were sitting before their music stands and were playing with
such absorption that her mouselike entrance went unnoticed. A
quartet—she recognized the instruments.

She looked about her diffidently. A glow from the windows in the balcony
shed a soft light over the auditorium. She saw the walls, papered in
deep red embossed with gold medallions. But there were no gold and plush
boxes, nor hundreds of gilded chairs!

She couldn’t remain standing there like a statue. If she sat down in one
of the orchestra seats, she might be seen. The balcony would be best;
besides, from that point of vantage she could see everything better. She
moved quietly along the wall, tip-toed up the circular stairs, and
gently lowered a seat. The hinge snapped and the seat fell with a bang.
The quartet was playing softly, which made matters worse, and only when
it began its brilliant finale did she slide into the seat. She looked
about her. It was easy to picture the one-time audience, all satin and
brocade, glittering with diamonds and jewels. She was jolted out of her
pleasant fancies when one of the musicians stepped forward to address
the empty auditorium.

“In order to give the student body and our guests some greater insight
into the music of Bartok, each member of the quartet will play a solo
passage and follow it with his interpretation. In this way, we feel that
those unfamiliar with the work of Bartok will learn to understand its
profound meaning and—”

The voice of each of the successive players was pleasant. They explained
long and difficult passages, preceded by equally long and difficult
excerpts from the music. Judy sighed. And this is what her father had
promised would be a wonderful evening! She sat there, her lips
compressed. If this is what the Juillard Quartet was going to play
Thursday night, wild horses wouldn’t drag her here again!

Her eyes ached from the harsh lights on stage. One could hear as well
with eyes shut. Her father often did. The musicians’ faces, their voices
and their music faded, then melted into an exciting vision....

She recognized immediately the figure of Horace Tabor. His thick, silky
mustache was unmistakable. And that was Augusta, his wife, as she
upbraided him as she swept the stage, her long, black skirt swishing
about her, her eyes flashing, her hair like a tower on her head.

“Is that how you repay me for the many years of hard work, traipsing all
the way from Maine to Colorado? And now that you are rich, you think you
can desert me for that baby-faced blonde, Baby Doe?” Her voice quivered
with anger and disdain.

“Be reasonable, Augusta,” Tabor’s voice was firm, yet sad.

“Reasonable! I will never give you a divorce. Never!”

“But, Augusta, you forget. I have my divorce!”

“One that I will never recognize!” she wildly interrupted.

“Baby Doe is now my wife. I love her!”

And there clinging to Tabor was Baby Doe, her soft curves pressed close
to him, her head crowned with golden curls resting on his breast.

“She, that creature, will be your ruin!” Augusta said and pointed her
finger derisively. “You’ll never become Senator tied to her! You’ll
never be anything! You’re finished!”

“Augusta,” Tabor spoke with sorrowful dignity. “I have made you rich.
I’ve given you mines. You want more money, very well! Only I will have
Baby Doe....” And he clasped the silent clinging figure closer to him.

Augusta rose to her full height, like an angry prophetess of old. “She’s
after your money, your fortune. And when that is gone, she’ll leave you!
Some day when you are ragged and poverty-stricken, you will wake up.
Wake up!”

Judy felt someone shaking her arm. “Wake up!” the voice repeated. She
opened her eyes with difficulty. A boy was bending over her.

“The rehearsal’s over. The quartet will be leaving in a few minutes and
lock up.”

Judy looked at him, her mind still hovering between the past and the
present. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name’s Karl. I’m a violin student. I’ve been listening to the
rehearsal. Please come along. I don’t want to get locked in here.”

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

“I just closed my eyes for a minute,” Judy said as she followed him down
the balcony steps.

“It was a long minute, closer to thirty,” he laughed. “I saw—or rather
heard you—as you lowered that seat—sort of crash landing.”

“I know. I was petrified when it fell. A broken spring, I guess.”

They neared the entrance door. The music stands were folded and the
players were talking and laughing among themselves. Judy and Karl left
unnoticed and ran swiftly down the two long flights of stairs.

“They’ve stopped practicing!” Judy said, surprised at the silence in the
halls.

“Of course, lunch time. Most of the students eat at the houses, you
know, the dorms where they live.”

“You too?”

Karl shook his head. “I came weeks before the Music Festival started. I
live with my uncle.”

They stood for a moment. The sun felt warm and pleasant after the
mustiness of the Opera House. They looked at each other curiously.

“Well,” the boy smiled, about to leave.

“Karl,” Judy said hesitantly. She didn’t want him to go, not just yet.
He was nice—didn’t treat her like a child.

“Karl,” she said with a little more confidence, “where are you going to
eat your lunch?”

“Anywhere,” and he shrugged his shoulders as he tapped the pocket of his
coat bulging with a yellow bag.

“I have my lunch along too. The Chairlift is where I nearly always go.
There are benches and one can buy something to drink right there.”

“O.K.,” Karl said. “It’s one of my favorite spots too.” They started
walking.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

“Judy.”

“Judy,” he repeated. “I once knew a girl who was called Judith.”

“You did? What was she like?”

“It was a long time ago when I lived with a family abroad,” he said
quietly and quickly changed the subject.

“How did you like Bartok? Or didn’t you hear any of it?” he said with a
good-natured smile.

“Of course I did!” Remembering how little of it she had really heard,
she went on carefully choosing her words. “I found it difficult to
understand—to—”

“You’re right,” he interrupted, much to Judy’s relief. “I’ve heard it
now five times and each time I discover something new in it. It’s great
music. Like Milhaud and the other moderns, you’ve got to hear them again
and again. I came especially to hear Bartok’s piece because I’m studying
it. I can’t wait to hear it again on Thursday night.”

“Oh, yes, Thursday night.”

“Expect to be there?” Karl asked.

“Naturally,” Judy answered. “My parents count on my going.”

Her recent resolution flashed through her mind. “Wild horses wouldn’t
drag me here again!” But it was different now. Now there was Karl!




                                   6
                                  KARL


They walked on, Judy matching with ease Karl’s long stride. One block,
then another. She gave him a quick sidelong glance. He was much taller
than she was. His appearance was all that she could have wished. His
eyes—well, she had noticed them from the first, blue and dreamy. Even
his chin came in for some scrutiny. Her grandmother had often summed up
a person. He’s got a weak chin, vacillating, will never amount to
anything—or he’s got a strong chin, shows character. Karl’s, she
thankfully noted, was of the strong variety. So absorbed was she in her
appraisal of Karl that she was scarcely aware of the silence between
them.

When he began to whistle, a sad, plaintive melody, she realized at once
that she must say something. Silence could be devastating! How often she
and her friends discussed this very problem! What to say to a boy you
hardly know, especially when dancing, when it takes all your ingenuity
to keep your mind on those intricate steps, or when walking, as at the
present moment. She must say something—anything, if only something
brilliant or clever came to mind.

“Er—Does your uncle live around here?” she asked brightly.

“No,” Karl said, leaving off his whistling. “If we were walking in the
opposite direction, I could have shown you his place on Main Street. He
has an apartment over his business. Maybe you’ve seen it? It’s called
the Swiss Shop.”

“Yes, I think I have, if it’s the one with the window full of carved
peasant figures, gnomes and cuckoo clocks!”

“Yes, that’s it!” Karl interrupted. “I arranged that window display
myself,” he added with a touch of pride.

“Really?” Judy tactfully refrained from saying how ugly she had thought
it. “I’ve passed it many times. Does the name Swiss Shop mean that your
uncle imports these things from Switzerland?”

“Yes, and lots of other articles besides; jewelry and scarves, sweaters
for skiers and mountain climbers. Of course, cuckoo clocks are his real
hobby.”

“I can’t imagine who would want to buy a cuckoo clock,” Judy ventured to
say.

“No, neither could I, at first, but they do. Tourists, lots of them,
especially from Texas—they’re our best customers. Personally, I think
they’re a nuisance, a mechanical bird popping at you every hour. It can
be quite annoying when you practice.”

The jinx of silence was broken for the moment. Judy knew she had to keep
the talk flowing. The subject of clocks could be pursued.

“The kind of clocks I like best,” she said, “are the antique ones from
our American Colonial days. My grandmother collects them. She has one on
every mantel, over every fireplace in her house! They’re really
beautiful, usually of mahogany, with delicate pointed spires, like a
church steeple. Of course, none of them work. When you really wish to
know the time, you have to dash into the kitchen to look at the electric
clock fastened to the wall.”

“Well, what’s the good of them—just ornaments?”

“Grandma says they can be made to work if she ever got around to finding
a really dependable clockmaker,” Judy finished, rather crestfallen. The
subject of clocks was definitely exhausted.

It was while they stood at a crossing, waiting for some cars to pass,
that Karl, as if struck by some original idea, said, “How do you like
Aspen?”

Judy frowned, summoned up all her dramatic fervor, and in deep,
reproachful tones declaimed, “Et tu, Brute!”

Karl turned to her, a puzzled smile on his face, then he laughed
outright. “Why do you spout ‘Julius Caesar’? What do you mean?”

“Because that’s all anyone has asked me ever since I came to Aspen! Nor
do they ever bother to listen to an answer.”

“So, I’m in their class!” Karl gave her a quick look. “You’re a queer
duck!”

His pleasant and forthright manner, above all his acceptance of her as a
companion, put her at ease. The ice was broken. They reached the
Chairlift, found a bench, and ate their sandwiches. Judy shared her
malted milk and consumed most of Karl’s chocolate bar. The empty chairs
of the lift went monotonously skyward, unnoticed by the girl and boy.

Judy, now uninhibited by any barrier of self-consciousness, pursued her
usual method of satisfying what she termed her inquiring mind. She asked
questions and Karl spoke freely.

She learned he would be eighteen in October and would enter his last
year at Music and Art High School in New York. That he had private
instruction in violin and in theory and practiced three hours a day,
week ends longer.

“What will you do after graduation?” the young inquisitor went on.

“I don’t know—I can’t say. College, perhaps? It’s a hope, but a dim one.
If I’m to pursue music as a career—things are a bit mixed up just at
present.” He paused, as if weighing the matter.

“You see,” he said in a serious voice, “I owe it to my father to become
a fine musician, if possible a great one. That’s my mother’s dream. It’s
mine also.”

Judy shook her head. It all sounded very dull and depressing.

“Then all your life is just school, music lessons, and practicing. You
never have any time for any fun—for sports, for nothing except work!”

“No, perhaps not,” Karl said cheerfully. “But it all depends on what you
want to do—to accomplish.” He went on. “But I don’t lack for exercise,
if that’s what you mean. I have a bicycle and a newspaper route. I get
plenty of fresh air. I even have a pupil. Maybe I’ll get another,” he
said hopefully. “The money will be very useful.”

“Money!” For the first time Judy was critical of her new, much-prized
friend. Idealists didn’t worry about money. “Is that all that matters?
Money?”

“Yes, money is important,” Karl said emphatically. “My mother works at a
music shop. She spends two hours and more each day traveling on the
subway. When she gets home at night, tired as she is, there’s dinner to
prepare, things to do in the house, people to see—a few friends.
Concerts, of course. Someone I should hear—always my interests guide
her. So it’s up to me to do well in my studies, in my music, and earn a
little money to justify her sacrifice. She doesn’t call it sacrifice.
She loves what she’s doing and is buoyed up by her ambition, her
certainty of my success.” Karl had spoken with considerable heat, but
now he added quietly, “So you see how important are the few dollars I
earn, to pay part of the cost of my lessons.”

“You didn’t understand me, Karl,” Judy said humbly. “Money is important
to us too. But what I meant is that there are other things that don’t
cost anything and are important too.” She spoke diffidently, trying to
formulate thoughts she had never seriously considered but accepted as
the air she breathed.

“There are books—and friends—and art.” Still struggling to express
herself, she raised an arm to the mountains. “And nature!”

Karl nodded his head in agreement. “Of course, I like all those things.
Who wouldn’t? I love to read, although the only time I have is usually
late at night when I should be asleep. As for friends, I would be
untruthful if I didn’t admit I miss having close friends, even one. At
first, even though I could speak a little English, I was considered a
foreigner.”

At Judy’s exclamation, “That’s so narrow-minded!” Karl calmly said,
“That all passed in a year or two. I’m friendly with boys in my class
and I know a few of the girls. But they’re just as busy as I am, in
different ways, perhaps. There are some in the class, of course, who
don’t take their future careers seriously and they look down upon those
of us who do. They manage to have a good time, sports, girls, movies,
everything!” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have to go my own way.
Someone has said that to be lonely makes one strong. I’m not so sure.
One misses an awful lot.”

For once Judy was at a loss for words. She was touched by Karl’s simple,
unaffected words. To think that she had complained of being lonely! Her
mother and father led busy lives, but she knew she was never far from
their thoughts. They filled the house with gayety. Yes, they worked, her
mother and father.

“What about your father, Karl? Doesn’t he....”

“I thought you understood,” Karl interrupted her sharply. “He’s been
dead for eight years. He died four months after he was liberated from a
concentration camp.”

“Oh!” was all Judy could say.

The floodgates of memory were loosened.

“He was a great violinist.” The boy’s face was transfigured by a
passionate devotion. “He had made a great name for himself. My mother
told me of his triumphs. And he could have escaped in time as he advised
others to do, but he refused to leave until he succeeded in getting my
mother and me out of Austria. Then it was too late. He was picked up
with others and sent to the Polish border—”

“But you say he was freed, taken from that—that camp—”

“Yes, for three, perhaps it was four wonderful months we were together.
But he was a shadow, thin, emaciated, sick. But his spirit was exalted.
Something I couldn’t understand, being the child I was. But I felt his
excitement, that poured itself out in his love for me. I could feel his
eyes bore into me as he talked. His faith was something unbelievable. In
spite of all he had gone through, he believed in the goodness of people,
the mercy of God. While he was in there, in daily expectation of—you
know—he wrote a piece of music—for himself and for the others waiting to
die. He sang that piece to me. He played it over and over. ‘Some day,’
he said, ‘it will be the theme of a larger work for the land of our
hope—Israel!’ He was only thirty-five when he died.”

“I didn’t mean to bring back all those terrible memories. I’m sorry,
Karl,” Judy’s voice trembled.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about any more. What happened to my father
was the fate of six million others! Just because they were Jews and
other brave ones who dared to risk their own lives to help them!”

He turned to Judy as if to brush away these thoughts. “Even my mother
could not dwell on her miseries. When Uncle Yahn asked us to come to
America, we were glad. I was even happy.”

He got up, then sat down again. “I never talk about that which has
happened. One cannot forget. The present is to be lived—the future lies
before us. I believe as my father did that a better world is at hand.”
He paused. “I have told you more than I’ve told anyone in the seven
years we’ve lived in America. So, enough about me!” He seemed determined
to change the subject.

“What are you studying in Aspen, Judy? What instrument do you play?”

“Instrument?” Judy repeated. She found it difficult to make the
transition from his tragic story to her own self.

“I’m not a music student. I’m just here because of my parents. I did
study the piano for years, but I didn’t enjoy the drudgery of practice.”

Then seeing the disappointment on Karl’s face, she went on, “I love
music and I like to play for my own pleasure. But, you see, there’s
enough music in our house and some to spare! Father’s a violist and
Mother’s a singer. I thought I would round out the picture and try
something else.”

“Such as what?” Karl asked smiling, but persistent.

“If you promise not to laugh at me, the fact is I can’t make up my mind!
Sometimes I want above everything to become a writer. I love everything
about books, biographies, history, poetry, plays and novels, of course.
My teacher at school has been very encouraging.” She paused, her brow
furrowed in thought. Some instinct warned her not to speak of her more
recent passion for acting. “But for the last two years,” she went on,
“I’m mad about painting! Last summer and on all vacations I sketch with
my grandfather. He says I have talent. Maybe he only says that to make
me keep on painting. I asked him for his advice, which shall it be? Do
you know what he answered?”

Karl was interested. “What?”

“‘You’ve got a big appetite. Go ahead, do both! There’s no law to
prevent an author from illustrating his own stories!’”

Judy shook her head. “You see, darling as he is, he doesn’t take me
seriously either.”

Karl laughed. “I like that grandfather of yours. He just wants you to
make up your own mind. You still have lots of time to decide. But it’s a
long, hard road. A true artist lives only for his art.”

“That’s just the trouble with it. There’s so much I want to see and do,
not just be a person dedicated to art! Take my mother and father. They
live for their art!” Judy grimaced, “Some day when father’s old,
forty-five or fifty, perhaps he’ll get recognition! Everyone says Mother
has a wonderful voice. She has engagements all year. But is that enough?
No! She has to study languages, acting, and her singing. Lately her
manager suggested she take up dancing! Did you ever hear of anything so
crazy, at her age!”

“Some fine singers go into operettas and musicals.”

“But she hasn’t time as it is, ever to enjoy herself! At least Father
once or twice a year takes off a week end and goes on a ski trip or a
mountain climb. But Mother, no! She’s either too tired or must rehearse
or the house has been neglected and she wants the chance to catch up on
it, or her—well, it’s always something! Even here at Aspen, which she
tells everyone is simply idyllic, she works and worries.”

“Worries about you?”

“Me? Of course not! She’s worrying about the concert at which she’s to
be the soloist. I couldn’t bear such a life!”

Karl was deep in thought, analyzing, as was his nature, all that Judy so
impetuously revealed. “I don’t think you really understand your mother,
Judy,” he said. “She possesses that inner fire that drives her on. She’s
probably far happier than you think. I’m willing to say, without knowing
her, that excepting her family, singing is the biggest thing in her
life.” Judy seemed unimpressed. “What are your parents’ names?” he
asked.

“Lurie. My father’s John and my mother, Minna.”

“Your father is John Lurie? I’ve heard him play. The students worship
him. He’s a wonderful violist! He’ll be a second Primrose, someday.”

“Tell that to Father and he’ll love you. Primrose is his hero,” Judy
said airily.

Karl looked at Judy and shook his head. “With such parents, to throw
away the chance of being a musician!”

“If everybody did exactly what their parents did, there’d never be any
progress or change in the world. Shoemakers would continue to be
shoemakers, plumbers would go on plumbing.”

Karl burst out laughing. “Say, little philosopher, how old did you say
you were? Sixteen?”

For a moment Judy thought of correcting this slight error. I’m going to
be sixteen, but she quickly concluded, one needn’t be too exact! She
smoothed her new plaid skirt, looked at it with satisfaction. How lucky
that she put it on this morning before her mother had a chance to
shorten it. It certainly added distinction—even dignity.

The church bell rang and Karl looked hastily at his watch. One-thirty!
“I have to get along.” He got up and threw his coat over his shoulder.
“Must be at the _Aspen Times_ by two.”

“_Aspen Times?_” Judy inquired eagerly, her eyes large with curiosity.

“No, I’m not the music critic,” he said. “I have an easy, pleasant
little job there twice a week. Today I distribute posters to hotels,
stores, the inns, and nail some on telegraph poles. A boy I know, Fran,
is taking me around on the bus.”

“Fran who drives Little Percent?”

“Yes, you know him?”

“Mmmm. Mother says he drives like a madman. He brought us from the
Glenwood station to Aspen and he certainly gave us an earful,
Aspen—past, present and future.”

Karl was amused. “He knows Aspen all right. Of course, he should, living
here all his life.”

“He missed his vocation. He should be driving a large sightseeing bus, a
megaphone to his mouth—”

“Nonsense,” Karl said. “I like Fran. He calls himself dumb, but he
isn’t. He’s awfully kind and—”

“Oh, you mean he’s got a good heart?” Judy interrupted.

“I mean he’s a good guy generally. You should see him ski! He’s
wonderful. He took me on. I hadn’t been on skis since I was nine years
old. Before I knew it, he had me doing jumps. A late April day, the snow
was perfect, like powder—”

“I’m only joking. I know he’s all right. Remind him for me that I still
haven’t climbed any mountains.”

“O.K. I’ll give him the message. By the way, Judy, do you usually eat
your lunch here?”

“Yes, I do,” was Judy’s all too prompt answer.

“Then, if I don’t see you at the concert Thursday night, I can find you
here sometimes.”

“Not see me at the concert?” she swiftly considered. To listen to Bartok
with Karl would be pleasant. Without him....

“Why don’t you come to dinner with us Thursday night?” she said. “Then
we can all go together.” She smiled, not a little pleased at her
brilliant inspiration.

“I don’t like to barge in on your parents. They don’t know me—”

“That doesn’t matter. Mother adores me to have company. You see, we
never fuss.”

“Well, if Uncle Yahn doesn’t feel deserted, it’s a deal. I’d love to
know two such artists as John and Minna Lurie!”

When he was long out of sight, Judy recalled she didn’t even know his
name or his uncle’s. She thought how she would inform her mother. “I’ve
asked Karl whose uncle owns the Swiss Shop to have dinner with us.”
“Karl who?” her mother was sure to ask. “Oh, I’ll cross that bridge when
I come to it,” Judy’s solution to any vexing problem.

She went back to the bench. There was still an hour or more before her
mother would arrive home. With considerably less enthusiasm than usual,
Judy took out pen and paper to continue the letter to her grandparents
begun the day before. She was filling pages, so she imagined, but the
pen remained quiet in her hand. Her thoughts were of Karl. What was his
life like, living with strangers who took him in out of pity? And his
father! She shuddered. She knew something of those vague, unbelievable
horrors of the Nazis. But it was all so long ago. Nobody seemed to
remember any more. Why?

She folded the still unfinished letter and put it in her bag. Tomorrow,
she promised herself, she would write a real letter to them—tell them
about Karl. They will understand his sufferings. They will love him.

They will love him! Why only “they”? Why not—“There I go letting my
imagination run wild.” And smiling to herself, she collected her
possessions and walked leisurely toward her home.




                                   7
                   A FAMILY ARGUMENT HAPPILY RESOLVED


Mrs. Lurie mounted the sagging steps of their villa, which she
cheerfully if a bit resignedly called her Victorian relic. Elated that
she had managed to finish her classes and her teaching ahead of
schedule, she was particularly pleased with herself at having resisted
the temptation to rehearse her aria.

“No,” she had said with a faint tinge of regret. “I have a date with my
daughter. We’re going to the Pool. She’s been looking forward to it for
weeks. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

The front door of the house was unlatched as was the trusting custom of
all dwellers in Aspen. “Judy!” she called. There was no answer. Even the
piano was silent, the warm sunny day having apparently won the battle
between the students’ struggle, duty versus pleasure.

Mrs. Lurie was annoyed at not finding Judy at home, but she knew she
herself was to blame. In the argument over the camp this morning, she
had overlooked telling Judy she would try to be home early. It was only
two-thirty. There was ample time, she reflected. She would, in the
meanwhile, get ready: put on her yellow sunback cotton, long reserved
for this occasion, her yellow and gold sandals. She lightly brushed her
brown hair, yellow where the sun had bleached it. She was grateful that
nature had provided her with hair that fell in soft, natural waves. Mrs.
Lurie was far from vain, but she was pleased at her image reflected in
the mirror.

Another trip to the sidewalk and still no sign of Judy! Mrs. Lurie
re-entered the house, laid out Judy’s shorts and sleeveless blouse. This
was a slight risk she felt impelled to take. Her daughter had for years
made a fetish of selecting her own things and rebelled at any
infringement of her rights. Mrs. Lurie had encouraged her to do this.
But time and again she wished Judy’s taste wasn’t so lurid. That skirt,
for example, she wore this morning—not even shortened. Mrs. Lurie
glanced at the clock and concluded this was no time to think about such
matters. The car that was to fetch them to the Pool would arrive in ten
minutes.

She made her third trip to the sidewalk, scanning the street as if by
sheer wishing she could conjure up Judy into appearing. At last! There
she was, dawdling along at a snail’s pace, walking with an abstracted
air as if in another world.

As soon as Judy was within hailing distance, her mother called in a
voice that would have roused a Valkyrie from her mountain fastness.

“Hurry, Judy! You’re late!”

Judy looked around, startled at the familiar voice, then seeing her
mother, she quickened her steps to a run. There was no thought or
remembrance of a visit to the Pool. Her mother was home. She would tell
her about Karl. The need to talk was overpowering.

“Mother, I want to tell you something exciting!”

Mrs. Lurie tried not to show her annoyance. “Judy,” she interrupted. “I
made such an effort to get home early. Mrs. Freiborg and her daughter
will be here in less than ten minutes. Go in and wash up quickly. I’ve
laid out your things on the bed. Brush your hair. We can’t keep them
waiting.”

But Judy wasn’t listening. Her face was still glowing as she followed
her mother into the house. “I’ve got to tell you something quite
wonderful that happened. I met the nicest boy—”

“Boy?” Mrs. Lurie turned to her daughter. “What boy? Where?” There was a
perceptible note of sharpness in her voice.

“We ate our lunch together at the Chairlift. He’s a music student and
studies the violin.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Mrs. Lurie interrupted, giving Judy an indulgent
smile. The boy, thank goodness, wasn’t some nondescript. A music student
had an open sesame to Mrs. Lurie’s regard.

“But now, hurry, dear,” she said brightly. “You’ll tell me all about him
later.”

“Later, always later,” Judy grumbled to herself, her high spirits dashed
for the moment. “You know, it only takes me a few minutes to change.”

“And,” Mrs. Lurie added, following her own train of thought, “please
don’t wear that skirt again until I’ve taken inches off the hem. It’s
bad enough without trailing your ankles.”

Mrs. Lurie gave a noncommittal grunt as she packed bathing suits and
caps into a zippered bag. Judy put on the shorts and blouse without any
audible objection and stood near the mirror.

“In this sort of thing you’ll have to admit, Mother, everyone looks
alike. But a skirt like my plaid gives one a certain air—personality!”

Her mother shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to argue, but
she couldn’t resist saying, “I think you’re more appropriately dressed
as you are now, for a warm summer day. As for that skirt which you chose
against my better judgment, all I can say is that it rivals the crazy
quilt on your grandmother’s Colonial bed.”

An impatient honk of the horn ended the argument as Judy and her mother
hurried to the walk just as the dusty blue sedan pulled up in front of
the door.

Judy sat in the back seat next to a pale, freckled-faced girl with
straight honey-colored hair. Her large hazel eyes were continuously
fastened on her mother.

“This is Anne,” Mrs. Lurie smiled at both girls. “I know you’re going to
like each other.”

Mrs. Freiborg, a slight, distinguished-looking woman whose manner
reflected the importance her husband had achieved in the music world,
also turned and said affably, “I’m glad, Judy, you and Anne will get
acquainted at last.” Immediately both mothers were engaged in an
animated conversation and promptly forgot the existence of their
daughters.

The girls sat in strained silence. Judy wondered why her mother was so
sure she would like this girl. With an effort she broke the silence.

“I’ve never been in the pool as yet, have you?”

“Yes,” Anne said in a flat voice, reluctantly shifting her eyes from her
mother’s back to Judy’s face. “I take swimming lessons.”

“I’ve been swimming for ages,” Judy said with a slightly superior air,
“but I would love to learn how to dive.”

“I used to be so scared of the water,” Anne confided, “but I’m not
anymore. Mother says lots of girls are afraid—”

“Did she? I guess I belong to the foolhardy type. You still scared?”

“No. I find it easy in the pool. I wonder why it’s so different from the
lake where I just used to sink.”

“If the pool’s salt water, that would explain it.”

“What difference would that make, being salty or not?” Anne asked with a
puzzled look.

“Because in salt water, you’re buoyant, that is light. If you ever tried
swimming in the ocean, you would immediately see the difference.”

Anne shook her head still uncomprehending. Judy tried to remember the
explanation in her science book. “You—er—that is, the body displaces
less water when it’s salty. You sort of float, being so much lighter.”

She tried to elucidate her point more clearly. Science, she knew, wasn’t
her strong point. Then she dismissed the subject with a shrug.

There was no further conversation, scientific or otherwise, and the
girls seemed unfeignedly delighted to part company at the parking area.

As they walked toward the hotel, Mrs. Freiborg discovered several
acquaintances. She stopped with each, just to say a word, but the
minutes lengthened and added to Judy’s impatience.

“Mother, must we wait for them? Can’t we go ahead?”

Mrs. Lurie unexpectedly agreed and tactfully informed Mrs. Freiborg they
would meet later.

Entering the hotel with her mother, Judy felt considerably more at ease
than on her previous visit.

The sunny terrace dotted with tables and gay umbrellas was a lovelier
sight too than she remembered. To her surprise everyone seemed to know
her mother. Their progress toward the pavilion was a sort of slow
triumphal procession. “Come back and sit with us—” “We’ve saved room for
you at our table.” Again and again they were stopped and Judy
introduced. There followed the kindly inquiries, “And how do you like
Aspen, Judy?” And as usual, before the girl could think of a reply, the
talk drifted into other channels.

At last they reached the pavilion. Dressed in their bathing suits, they
stepped gingerly on the wet, slippery stones of the pool. Instead of the
longed-for plunge into the water, Mrs. Lurie suggested they first get a
good sunburn. “Besides,” she added mysteriously, “someone’s coming here
especially to meet you.”

Judy slumped down on the thick carpet of grass near her mother’s table.
She gazed at the water, enchanted by the azure color that was achieved,
as she learned later, by the paint on the bottom of the pool.

At an adjoining table, two women were playing Scrabble with fierce
concentration, but their absorption in the game didn’t prevent their
cross-table conversation with numerous friends.

“How did you like the concert, Minna? I admit there’s no one who can
conduct the way Izler Solomon does—”

Judy was left with her own thoughts. She barely noticed her mother leave
her seat to meet a young girl coming toward her. But she looked up
sharply when she heard her say, “Lynne, I’m so glad you were able to
make it. I almost gave up!”

So that was Lynne! Judy watched as they stood talking. She’s pretty, and
very young looking, Judy admitted grudgingly. Yes, for once, her parents
were right. She was beautiful! Judy admired the slender, graceful figure
in the black skin-tight bathing suit. She noticed the coal-black hair
and how Lynne wore it in a chignon low on her neck.

Judy saw her mother nodding in her direction. “They’re talking about me.
Mother’s probably telling her all my shortcomings and my latest—that I
don’t like the idea of going to a camp—that is, her camp. Probably
asking her to give me a talking to.” Just as Judy feared, her mother
returned to her table and Lynne came directly to where Judy sat
scowling.

“Hello!” said Lynne, sitting down next to her on the grass. “I’m Lynne
and you’re Judy, the girl who doesn’t want to go to my camp. Is that
right?” she asked with a delightfully disarming smile.

Judy found her anger dissolving at Lynne’s unexpected warmth.

“I don’t especially care about a day camp,” Judy said lamely.

“Why? Did you ever go to one?”

“No,” Judy said, surprised at Lynne’s directness. “But I’ve friends who
went and were bored.” Judy knew she would have to defend her opinion if
she was to escape. “I feel as they do,” she went on. “I like to paint
when I feel like painting, swim or read or do any activity when I’m in
the mood, not just at certain set periods.”

“I see,” Lynne said, with just a suspicion of a smile on her lips.
“You’re afraid of regimentation. But don’t you find that unless one
plans to do a certain thing at a definite period, one never gets around
to it at all?”

“I do,” Judy said, but even as she spoke, she was conscious of the many
things she never managed to get around to doing. “Of course, I’d feel
very differently about going to a sleep-away camp,” Judy went on with
more confidence. “Sometimes you go on canoe trips and long, exciting
hikes, mountain climbs and spending nights in a hut, preparing your own
meals—things you can’t possibly do by yourself.”

“That’s true,” Lynne agreed, “but no one could recommend such a program
for very young children. Those are the ones we try to reach. They can
live at home with their parents and yet for part of each day have
companionship of other children and do interesting things.”

“A lecture instead of a swim,” Judy groaned inwardly and yet she
couldn’t help being interested in spite of herself.

“You see,” Lynne went on, “children of professional people, musicians
especially, frequently have long separations from their parents—tours,
long or short, recitals, rehearsals at all sorts of inconvenient times.
They miss their mothers and fathers. And I find that it’s just as
important for the parents who want their children with them when it’s at
all possible. Here at Aspen our camp serves such a purpose.”

“Yes,” Judy said. “I guess it’s wonderful for young children, but I
don’t fit into that picture. I’ve always had my grandparents in such
emergencies and when I don’t, I manage all right by myself.” Her eyes
wandered to the pool.

Lynne touched her shoulder. “Let’s get our swim now. We can finish
talking later.”

Lynne gave a few deft twists to hair, tucked it under her cap and went
swiftly to the diving board. Judy watched as she ascended the high
board. There was a splash as her body, taut and graceful, hit the water.
A few seconds later, Lynne coming up from her dive called to Judy to
follow.

Judy shook her head. “I can’t dive.”

“Then fall in or use the ladder.”

Obediently Judy went to the ladder, holding the rail firmly as she
descended the slippery steps. With her back to the pool, she braced
herself for the shock of cold water as she cautiously reached for the
last rung. Wildly trying to grasp the receding rail, she fell in,
hitting the back of her head with a resounding smack. With a few strokes
she came to the surface only to find Lynne laughing.

“That’s what you call a perfect take-off. How’s the head?”

“The head’s all right, but the water! It’s warm! It’s like swimming in a
bathtub.” Judy grimaced with keen disappointment. Her eyes were burning
and her nose was itching. “And it’s full of chlorine,” she added
indignantly.

“You’ll get used to the chlorine and the temperature is divine. We
ordinary folks love it. Come on, you polar bear, I’ll race you to the
end of the pool.”

They enjoyed the swimming, but Judy soon tired. “I can’t understand it,
Lynne,” she said, breathing like a whale, “I usually can swim a
half-hour without feeling it. Now after only ten minutes, I’m pooped.”

“So am I,” Lynne said cheerfully. “It’s the altitude in Aspen that makes
breathing difficult, especially swimming or mountain climbing. I’m
gradually getting used to it, and so will you. Let’s go out. I have a
big bath towel and we can stretch out on the grass and dry in the sun.”

“Hi, Lynne!” A man was walking toward them accompanied by Mrs. Lurie,
Mrs. Freiborg, and Anne. “Lynne, aren’t you coming in for another swim?”

“I’ll join you later, Allen. Judy and I want to rest for a while.

“Allen’s my husband. Don’t you think he’s handsome? And he’s wonderful!”
Lynne’s eyes sparkled. “Don’t think I’m prejudiced. Everyone loves him.”

Judy’s eyes followed the tall, powerful, dark-skinned figure. “He must
be very strong,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“And sweet and considerate and talented! Don’t get me started on the
subject of Allen!” However, she went right on. “He helps me at the camp
too. Twice a week when rehearsals are over early, he comes over and
plays baseball with the little ones. They adore him! Can you imagine
those tots hitting the ball with a bat bigger than they are and racing
for bases? It’s a riot!”

The sun, even as the afternoon was drawing to a close, was still warm
and glowing. Lynne turned on her side, her face close to Judy’s.

“Let’s go back to what we were talking about. No day camp can hope to
offer the things you speak of, Judy. Our children are young—”

“That’s my real objection, Lynne. I met Anne today. She’s supposed to be
one of the older campers. Maybe she’s eleven or twelve, but she seems so
much younger—”

“Yes, I’m surprised you noticed it. Anne’s shy besides being a little
immature in some ways. With some children the process of growing up
takes longer,” Lynne said thoughtfully. “I won’t go into all the reasons
for it, but in Anne’s case, she’s finding herself. She’s very talented
in singing and acting. Our little camp has done a lot for her already.
She’s going to come through fine.”

“Lynne,” Judy said hesitantly, “I hope you won’t mind my being awfully
frank with you. I really can’t see myself as a camper with such
youngsters. Now if I could help in some way—I get along with children—”

“What did you say?” Lynne interrupted excitedly. “You’ve given me a
terrific idea! I think it was taking shape inside me all afternoon while
we was talking.” She stared at Judy appraisingly. “You could become my
helper! You’re intelligent and for fifteen—”

“Nearly sixteen,” Judy interrupted.

“So much the better,” Lynne smiled happily, “I don’t expect you to
understand these children and their problems. That isn’t necessary.”
Lynne paused, expecting Judy to say something. But the girl was so
surprised by the sudden turn of the conversation that she wasn’t sure
she had understood Lynne correctly.

“As a matter of fact,” Lynne went on, completely captured by her idea,
“I’ve been trying to get someone to replace Claire. She has to return
home next week. You’ll be perfect. Claire has been responsible for songs
and stories, arts and crafts for the younger ones. Your mother told me
you’re rather good at that sort of thing. What a blessing for me! Arts
and crafts—that’s where you could fit in. What do you say, Judy?”

“I love to paint and make things, but I couldn’t teach anyone, honestly,
I couldn’t.”

“There’s no need to teach,” Lynne said reassuringly. “The children
create. We only direct them how to use their tools. If you come while
Claire is still with us, you could watch how she makes things out of
wire and puppets out of papier-mâché. And in the meantime you will get
to know the children. I have a feeling you’ll do well.”

Judy was overwhelmed and a little frightened. Yet, she was already
seeing herself telling Karl about this new, this fantastic thing, a job!

“You’ve never seen my camp?” Lynne asked.

Judy shook her head, still immersed in an imaginary conversation with
Karl.

Lynne took no notice of Judy’s abstraction and lovingly described the
camp site, an immense corral that belonged to a farmer who leased it to
her for the summer. “There are cows and a few horses who graze at a
comfortable distance. The children love the animals.”

Judy was now listening, hanging on every word.

“There are two ponds with ducks and every morning there is a regular
ceremony of feeding them with chunks of bread donated by the local
bakery. On the sandy beach of the pond the children have their sings,
which they grandly call concerts. When the singing is over, Claire tells
them a story and encourages them to act it out.”

“That must be fun,” Judy said.

“Twice a week I take a group of the children riding. They love the
stables and the horses and the ride over the dirt road into the open
country. While I’m away, Claire is in charge.”

“How long are you gone from camp?” Judy asked worriedly. The words “in
charge” had serious overtones.

“Just a little over an hour. There’s a shed with tables and benches that
we use as an art room, and a hayloft houses our much overworked
phonograph and the costumes for our playlets.”

“It sounds like a very busy morning,” Judy said, a little dubious of her
ability to carry on such a varied program.

“Not really,” Lynne said. “At twelve-thirty we are all ravenously hungry
and we spend the lunch period in our grove of aspen trees. It’s a cool
and restful spot, a lovely end to our morning. At one o’clock we drive
the children back to their homes.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Judy said breathlessly. “I think I would like to
try it.”

“Good. Let’s start tomorrow. And, Judy,” Lynne said with that dazzling
smile Judy loved, “I don’t expect to exploit my young helper. While I
can’t pay you a salary, your mother will not have to pay any tuition for
you—or she can pay and you receive it back as a bonus. That’s the
arrangement we have with Claire, except that she lived with us and was
able to take advantage of music events—and dates! Judy, you’ll get good
experience as a junior councilor-in-training. Do you like the idea?”

“I think it’s absolutely terrific. I never dreamed of anything like
that. I can hardly wait to tell Karl.”

Lynne looked a little bewildered. “Karl? Who’s he?”

“He’s a boy I met, a music student. He believes that everyone, I mean
boys and girls, should help the family earn money.”

“Oh? And at what tender age does he suggest one starts?”

Before Judy could answer, the swimmers returned, dripping pools of water
around them and demanding that Lynne and Judy join them for a last swim.

Lynne got up and addressed the little circle, calling them by name,
“Allen, Mrs. Lurie, Mrs. Freiborg, Anne, I have an announcement to make.
I want to present a new member of the Festival Day Camp staff, Judy, our
new junior councilor.”

There was a faint gasp from Mrs. Lurie. Then everyone applauded and went
joyfully to the pool for that last dip.




                                   8
                            SMUGGLER’S CAFÉ


It was undeniably rewarding, Judy discovered, to be suddenly elevated to
the position of junior councilor. She received the congratulations of
her mother, still in a mild state of shock, and an enthusiastic pat of
assurance from her father.

But one thought clouded Judy’s satisfaction. When would she be able to
see Karl? How was she to tell him her news about camp? If she didn’t let
him know at once why she could no longer meet him for lunch at the
Chairlift, he might think she’d forgotten. Worse still, that she didn’t
care!

In a novel she had picked up and eagerly devoured, the word “tryst” was
prominent in the story. In fact, all the harrowing events that pursued
the unlucky heroine were the result of her not keeping a certain
appointment. As Judy sat brooding over this knotty problem, her eyes
fell on the telephone—of course. Her mother was busy in the kitchen
preparing dinner. Her father was out for the moment. Now was undoubtedly
the perfect time. She looked up the number in the directory and called.
Karl himself answered the telephone.

“It’s me, Judy.” The great news was conveyed. “Wonderful! Good for you!”
Judy hurried on to the crux of the matter. “I can’t ever make it for
lunch any more—What’s that? A customer? I should come to the Swiss Shop
after camp? Yes, I can. All right, we’ll decide then—”

The next two days of Judy’s apprenticeship were rather a let-down. It
wasn’t only that Claire was as beautiful as a Greek goddess, and withal
so capable! Judy watched her as she transformed a bit of wire into an
amusing figure. With what patience she encouraged the little ones to
fingerpaint while at the same time, with exasperating ease, she gave
casual direction to those busy with their puppets!

It was small consolation to know Claire was eighteen. But the real hurt
was inflicted by the children themselves. They either ignored her or
made unflattering remarks.

“Your hair’s not nearly as nice as Claire’s,” one pretty little innocent
observed.

“It’s cool this way,” Judy said, apparently unruffled, but she touched
the offending pony tail with a mental note to attempt something more
sophisticated.

Willie, whose affection she believed she had won by bestowing much labor
and many smiles upon his daubs, moved his head closer and closer to hers
with fascinated interest. At last he pointed to her teeth, “It comes out
at night when you sleep, doesn’t it?”

Judy gave an embarrassed laugh. She had forgotten the existence of the
small wire brace she wore over a recalcitrant tooth to keep it from
protruding.

“Don’t be silly. When you grow up and one of your teeth is crooked,
you’ll have to wear a brace like mine, maybe a much larger one.”

“Does it hurt?” he persisted.

“No, it doesn’t.” She closed her mouth with a snap. Otherwise the words
“little brat” might have been audible.

Claire was still there, kind and helpful, but a trifle unconscious of
the children’s studied indifference.

“Let me help you,” Judy said time and again, only to be rebuffed.

Less than a week later Claire left amid a scene of tears and
heartbreaking farewells. She had scarcely left the camp premises when
the children of their own accord turned to Judy, ready to transfer their
affection to her. How could they forget their adored Claire so quickly!
Judy wondered if she had even been so callous or so lacking in loyalty
in that faraway time when she was seven or eight years old.

When she saw Karl at the Swiss Shop, he made light of her complaints.
“All kids are like that.”

The shop was empty. Uncle Yahn was taking his siesta. “All Europeans
take an afternoon nap. Besides, he gets up at five o’clock every
morning.”

They sat down at his improvised desk on which were spread sheets of
music.

“I’ve been trying to enlarge that little melody of my father’s. Write it
for violin, piano, and oboe, as a start—I want to make something fine
out of it. I will—some day! But I don’t know enough yet about other
instruments.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe I’m just sentimental.”

“No, it’s a wonderful melody,” Judy said, surprised at her own
vehemence. “You can make variations on it, like Paganini did on his
beautiful theme. Why don’t you talk to my father about it? He loves
composing.”

“Your mother says it’s all right for me to come?” Karl asked.

“Of course,” Judy said, painfully aware she never did get the chance to
tell her mother she had invited Karl for dinner.

“Seven o’clock all right?”

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

“Or before,” Judy said with decision. She felt certain that her mother
would put no obstacles in her path now that it was a “fait accompli,”
another expression from that same, much-prized novel.

At home that evening she avoided discussing the less happy details of
her day at camp and artfully turned the conversation to the Juillard
Concert.

“Which reminds me, Minna,” her father said, “I have two extra tickets. I
wonder whom we can ask?”

“I—er—asked Karl to come with us,” Judy said haltingly. “He has his own
student ticket, but I asked him to have dinner with us so that we could
all—”

“Karl?” her father asked. “You know him, Minna?”

Mrs. Lurie shook her head. “And why to dinner?” she asked, her eyebrows
raised.

“You remember, Mother. He’s the music student I told you about. Studies
the violin. He lives with his uncle who owns the Swiss Shop. I tried to
tell you—” Judy said, almost in tears.

“That’s all right. Only I wish you wouldn’t be so impulsive. However,
since you’ve asked him,” her mother added with a smile, “there’s nothing
more to be said.”

“I’ll bring in the dessert,” Judy volunteered, happy to escape any
further discussion.

“I suppose there’s no harm in having him, especially as Judy has already
done the inviting. We’ll have the uncle too,” Mrs. Lurie added as an
afterthought. “It might be interesting to meet a native Aspenite.”

Judy, standing at the kitchen door, listened breathlessly to this
exchange.

She entered immediately carrying the bowl of stewed peaches. “Oh you
don’t have to invite the uncle,” she said, forgetting she was not
supposed to have been within earshot.

“May as well be hung for a sheep as a fowl,” her father said
enigmatically. “Your mother is asking them both.”

“Karl will be glad. He didn’t want to leave his uncle before dinner,”
Judy said, suddenly convinced she had the most understanding parents in
the world.

On the night of the concert the guests arrived in good time. Karl seemed
completely overshadowed by his large, ruddy-faced relative. After the
uneasy introductions, Uncle Yahn singled out Judy and handed her a
prettily wrapped parcel.

“This is for you, a little present.”

“What is it?” Judy asked, her eyes glistening with anticipation.

“Open it and see for yourself,” Uncle Yahn smilingly ordered.

It was a small cuckoo clock! She swallowed hard to conceal her
disappointment, and with a mischievous glance at Karl’s glum face said,
“Isn’t it adorable!”

Uncle Yahn beamed. “You see, Karl, I told you she would find it most
admirable.”

Mr. Lurie and Uncle Yahn seemed to take to each other at once. There was
a lovely sunset, just perfect for their cookout. Both were hovering over
the crude stones of the grille, watching the steak but more intent on
their talk, skiing and music.

Mrs. Lurie, relaxed and comfortable in a reclining chair, was
entertaining Karl.

“There I was, announced in all the papers and posters as the great lyric
soprano,” she smiled. “You know the extravagant language of those
billings—and my accompanist had broken his wrist an hour after we got
off the plane. The manager combed the city for someone to accompany me.
We decided to cancel the engagement when at the very last moment a noted
pianist, just returned from his tour—”

Judy had heard the story. Her attention wavered as she caught snatches
of the conversation between her father and Uncle Yahn. She heard Karl’s
name and moved a little closer to them.

“It looks as if Karl will have an unusual opportunity, that is, if he
proves himself worthy.” Uncle Yahn wagged his head mysteriously.

“What opportunity?” her father asked.

“It’s a little too early to talk. Nothing is definite, but my
sister-in-law’s letters in the last two weeks are filled with this
miracle, as she calls it.”

Mr. Lurie was interested and Uncle Yahn went on to explain. “A close
friend of my poor brother managed to escape to America before it was too
late. It was my brother who insisted that he get out. He was unmarried,”
Uncle Yahn went on, “and could take the risks and he did. After many
hair-raising experiences, he reached America and because he knew someone
in Chicago, he went there. He got a job as a waiter in a restaurant. The
rest is like a fairy tale. He met a man, a customer in the restaurant.
They became acquainted, drawn together by the love of music. This
stranger offered him a job. No, not as a musician but as a worker in his
plastic factory. Now comes the fairy tale. After ten years, he is now a
partner and rich! A few months ago he came to New York on business. He
stopped in at Ditson’s to buy some music. Karl’s mother works there.
They met. You can imagine the scene! He insists upon providing for
Karl’s musical education. He says it is only justice!”

“And now?” Mr. Lurie asked.

“If Karl will put his music before everything else, put himself in Mr.
Werther’s hands, his future is assured! He will have the best teachers,
study abroad.”

“But why abroad?” Mr. Lurie interrupted. “We have the finest schools and
teachers right in America.”

“That is true,” Uncle Yahn conceded, “but Mr. Werther received his
training in Vienna. He feels that with the stamp of European approval,
Karl will achieve recognition so much sooner.” He smiled and shrugged
his shoulders. “The decision need not be made for a year, perhaps two.
Karl finishes high school in a year. Then it will be up to him.”

The steak was finished and placed on a platter. There was laughter and
anecdotes and beer. Judy mechanically chewed a piece of steak, her eyes
staring at some far-off place. Why did this busybody of a rich man have
to come and snatch Karl away just when she was getting to—she hesitated
to name her feeling—like him so much.

She glanced at Karl. He looked untroubled and was enjoying himself. So
was Uncle Yahn. She was worrying needlessly. It was only talk—Isn’t that
what Uncle Yahn said? The decision need not be made for a year or two.
So much could happen! Karl might prefer to go to the Curtis Music School
in Philadelphia or David Mannes right in New York. Anything was better
than having an ocean between them!

If she studied like mad, she could be through with school and college in
six years—be equipped to teach—earn money—six interminable years! And
why college, she argued with herself. Many clever people never—

“You’ve hardly touched the good meat on your plate,” Uncle Yahn
observed, gently nudging her. “Dreaming instead of eating! That’s not
what makes a nice, plump young lady.”

Nor did she fall asleep during the two hours of chamber music of the
Juillard Quartet. She was too excited. Karl sat next to her, his fists
under his chin, his body thrust forward, his eyes glued to the players.
An occasional smile and a well-directed poke from his elbow helped her
to listen.

During intermission she told Karl she liked Bartok better, hearing the
music a second time. “And I love seeing the red and gold opera house
again. But,” she added laughing, “the music can’t compare with the
thrilling play I dreamed up about Baby Doe and Horace Tabor when you
woke me up.”

After the concert, the Luries decided to prolong the evening’s pleasure.
They would go to Smuggler’s Café for refreshments and talk. Uncle Yahn
excused himself, “No night life for me.” But Lynne and Allen joined the
party and Judy’s cup of delight was full. They too would meet Karl.

Candles dimly lit the room. A boy played the guitar and sang. When he
left off strumming and singing, someone started the jukebox. Wonderful,
exciting jazz! Allen and Karl were discussing the merits of their
instruments, where they were bought, how many thousands of dollars it
took to own a really good violin or viola—Lynne was talking camp—Judy
was filled with a vast content and smiled at everyone.

The sputtering candles in the dimly lit room, the singing and guitar,
the jazz still throbbing, waiters hurrying by with ice cream floats
dizzily topped with whipped cream—Lynne and Allen, her parents, gay and
carefree—above all, Karl! This was Aspen life! At last she was part of
it!




                                   9
                            A SMALL TRIUMPH


Judy’s days seemed to speed on wings. Since she had joined the camp
staff, she was given a wider scope for her talents as Lynne recognized
her interest in stories and her flair for translating them into dramatic
episodes.

All camp activities now centered upon the coming exhibition for Parents’
Day. Old sketches were reworked. A new one, its selection and production
left in Judy’s hands, was now in rehearsal. Examples of the varied arts
and crafts ornamented the walls of the shed. Judy made a lively poster
of a boy and girl dripping rainbow-hued paint from their attenuated
fingers pointing to the words, “See What We Made.” The repertory of
songs and dances was played endlessly on the wheezing victrola and
rehearsed with zest. Allen came as frequently as possible to coach his
diminutive baseball team and then stayed to hammer away, improvising
props and sets. It was work but lots of fun, and the children were eager
to stay an extra hour to perfect their show.

Yet there was hardly a day that Judy didn’t see Karl. After the children
were driven to their homes, the camp bus dropped her at the Swiss Shop.
The hour, sometimes two, spent with Karl cemented what was now a close,
a tender friendship. They recommended their favorite reading to each
other and exchanged books. Sometimes they argued about world affairs,
about which neither was too well informed; or religion, a subject that
Judy suddenly discovered as being important. Karl knew someone in the
Israeli Symphony Orchestra and there was much talk and speculation about
that little country. Judy found Karl’s ardor and interest in Israel
contagious, and the remembered discussions in her grandparents’ home
took on new meaning.

Judy was happy, unspeakably happy, until for four days her well-timed
visits to the Swiss Shop had been fruitless! Karl was nowhere in
evidence. She was surprised and hurt, but too proud to mention anything
to Lynne. Like the heroines in her literary world, she put aside her
personal grief and rehearsed her little troupe with fanatical zeal. The
words frequently heard in her home, “The show must go on,” were
frequently in her thoughts.

At last everything was in readiness. Figures of wire dangled in the
breeze over the entrance and the puppets sat on the shelves ready for
their part in the show. Behind a screen were the props for Billy the
Goat. The set for Peter and Wendy was hauled out of the shed. There were
only twenty campers, but all twenty were eager to shine.

It was a perfect day. The parents and guests arrived at ten in the
morning and would stay through lunch. They sat on the hard, backless
benches in the hot sun of the compound and watched the program with
enthralled interest. When it was over, the applause was terrific.

Lunch time was a mad scramble. The children rushed to extract their
individual lunches from the heap of lunch boxes, all singularly alike.
Drinks and ice cream had to be taken from the coolers and benches
carried up the hillock to the grove of aspen trees. Everyone, or nearly
everyone, helped. Mrs. Freiborg, assisting Lynne and Judy to carry one
of the benches, never ceased to express her enthusiasm.

“And,” she continued as they awkwardly struggled up the path, “I can’t
thank you enough, Lynne, for all you’ve done for Anne.”

Lynne gave a pleased smile and Mrs. Freiborg went on. “I don’t say that
Anne was the most wonderful Wendy, but that she consented to play the
role at all surprised me. It was always Peter she fancied and yet she
played Wendy with such feeling.”

“Let’s drop the bench right here,” Lynne said. “I’m too tired to carry
it any further.” She sat on it and motioned the others to do the same.

“Don’t thank me for Anne’s performance. Judy is the little wizard who
deserves our thanks. I helped occasionally with the direction. Allen and
the farmer who owns this property built Wendy’s house out of some
discarded plywood. Luckily it didn’t fall apart as it did at one of the
rehearsals. But Judy selected the sketch, cast the players, and produced
it.”

Mrs. Freiborg smiled, “Judy?”

“Yes,” Lynne answered. “She had the idea that Anne would rid herself of
the concept of not wanting to grow up by having her take the part of
Wendy, a mother image. A sense of responsibility, a maturity would
develop—gradually.”

“Lynne,” Judy interrupted, bewildered by these high-flown words, “you
know I didn’t figure it out that way! I just thought it would do Anne
good to look after someone else, like the Lost Boys—and after the first
try-out, I saw she could do it.”

“And your instinct or whatever you choose to call it was correct.” Lynne
put her arm around her young assistant.

Yes, it was a small triumph for Anne and for Judy as well. Mr. Lurie
strutted about the camp accepting compliments, he who was so modest
about his own work. And Mrs. Lurie, still sitting in the hot sun, smiled
with pride whenever she caught her daughter’s eye.

Judy was grateful her mother had come. She knew it entailed her giving
up an important rehearsal that morning and that she would have to make
it up that afternoon and again in the evening. Her debut with the entire
Festival Orchestra was only five days off. It was from Lynne and Allen
that Judy learned how much depended on this performance. Success might
lead to an engagement at the City Center Opera Company of New York! As
Judy mopped her own moist face, she thought more than once that her
mother ought to get out of that sun.

At last the picnic, the games, the excitement were over! The parents
took the children home. Allen was busy burning rubbish while Lynne and
Judy were methodically taking down the exhibits.

Judy was thankful the tension of the last few days was behind her. Now
she would have the leisure to think. Why hadn’t she heard from Karl in
five days? Had she said anything? Absent-mindedly she fingered a puppet
and threw it into the rubbish heap.

“What are you doing?” Lynne asked sharply. “Those puppets are not to be
thrown out! The children expect to take them home.”

She glanced at Judy’s troubled face, then said with her usual
gentleness, “Why are you scowling? I thought you’d be happy. Everyone
praised you—”

“It’s nothing, Lynne. I guess it’s the heat.”

“But it’s much cooler now.” Lynne’s eyes twinkled. She thought of one
subject certain to chase the gloom from Judy’s face.

“By the way,” she said with affected nonchalance, “guess who I met this
morning at the post office. Karl!”

Judy perked up perceptibly.

“I asked him where he’d been keeping himself, that I hadn’t set eyes on
him for a week.”

“What did he say?” Judy mumbled almost inaudibly.

“That he’s been busy, frightfully busy. Imagine, he’s entered a
competition, written an original piece based on some theme—he was rather
vague about it. But he’s been working on it every spare moment and
expects to play it himself. He had to get an accompanist—your father’s
idea. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Yes, it is. It’s wonderful! Did you say something about an accompanist?
Who is he, Lynne?”

“It’s a she, a very nice girl, one of the students,” Lynne said
brightly, too preoccupied with the cleaning up to notice the deep flush
that suddenly appeared on Judy’s face. Lynne went on, “He put up a
notice on the bulletin board and got an immediate response. The girl
volunteered her services and isn’t charging Karl anything.”

“Really?” Judy said, immediately suspicious.

“Yes. You see it works both ways. She’s anxious to perfect herself as an
accompanist and is interested in helping Karl at the same time.”

Judy emitted a long, skeptical “Hmmmm.” Interested in Karl, not in
helping him, she thought to herself as she tried to shake off her
mounting anguish. She tormented the wire figure in her hand. “What’s she
like?” Judy asked in a tone elaborately casual.

“I really don’t know much about her, but I gather from what Karl said
that she’s an older girl, that is, older than he is. He seems very
pleased about her.”

Judy gloomily digested this piece of information while lost in thought.
Karl had made no effort to tell her the great news—no. He had a new
confidant now, had no need for her. Only her grandfather, voicing
Hamlet’s foreboding of evil, would understand. “O my prophetic soul” now
found a sympathetic echo in Judy’s heart.

Lynne looked up and eyed Judy keenly. “Why are you looking so tragic? I
know what’s the trouble,” she said affectionately. “You’re just
overtired. Let’s drop everything and go to the pool. It’ll be cool and
refreshing and we can finish up tomorrow. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. I ought to go home.”

“Help me pull this last box of stuff into the shed. There, that’s fine.
Allen, don’t burn anything more. We want to leave as soon as possible.”

After everything was carefully stowed away, Lynne walked to the log
fence. “Let’s sit up here until Allen’s ready.”

Judy climbed up next to Lynne.

“On Saturday,” Lynne said, “we have a beautiful, free day, no concert,
no rehearsal, no camp. For a long time Allen and I have planned to visit
Toklat. You’ve heard of the huskies, the wonderful Alaskan dogs that
live there, trained and bred by Stuart Mace.”

Judy nodded.

“I think you’ll love seeing them. Allen’s crazy about dogs and he’s been
dying to go there ever since we came to Aspen. And not a stone’s throw
from Toklat is a real ghost town, the kind you’ve been babbling about.
Ashcroft, once larger than Aspen, is still deserted after seventy
years.”

“You mean the silver-mining town?” Judy asked, interested in spite of
herself. Karl’s faithlessness receded for the moment.

Lynne nodded. “The same. And maybe we’ll top off the day with a ride up
the Chairlift.”

“You mean—you want me to go along?”

“Of course.” Pleased at having roused Judy from her lethargy, Lynne
said, “I’m glad you like the idea. It’ll be fun having you with us,
almost like having my sister Jane. I miss my family. I haven’t seen them
in a year. So you see how much I need you!”

Is Lynne saying that just to cheer me?

“Saturday? I’d love to go. It’s wonderful of you to ask me.” After a
pause she sighed, “How I wish Karl could come too—”

“Well, maybe he can—but Saturday is a very busy time at the Swiss
Shop—but I can ask him.”

“He’ll probably have other things to do besides the Swiss Shop.” Lynne
looked at Judy, understanding the girl’s troubled spirit.

“Karl or no Karl, we’re going to have a good time! Now, what about that
swim in the pool?”

“No. I’ll go home. Mother’s rehearsing this afternoon and again tonight.
She’ll be tired. I want to help with dinner.”

As they bumped along the stony road that separated the camp from Aspen,
Judy was silent. She thought of the sad things she would have to
communicate to her diary. Her happiness was forever gone! Her lips
twisted into what was intended to be a cynical smile. A broken heart? As
a potential writer she was critical of the phrase. No, not broken, but
damaged, certainly. Karl had deserted her for another!




                                   10
                   A CATASTROPHE WITH A HAPPY ENDING


Dinner was long over. The dishes washed, only the burned pots remained.
While preparing the meal, Judy’s thoughts had been engaged on more
important matters. Karl’s cruel neglect! She told herself, so what? It
isn’t the end of the world! But in her heart she felt it was. Mr. Lurie,
perched on the step-ladder, was putting away into the inaccessible
closets plates and platters Judy had managed to assemble for this, her
first experiment in preparing dinner.

As she scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the aluminum, she was
thoughtful. She’d come home early, early enough to see her mother wasn’t
feeling well. Minna had sunk into a chair, too tired, she admitted, to
move. It was at Judy’s insistence that she went to bed. What mattered
that the onions were burnt to a crisp, that the creamed spinach had
emerged like green glue? The smiles and pleasantries of her parents were
compensation enough.

Minna had sat through the dinner, refreshed by her nap, the color once
more back in her cheeks. She ate little. Occasionally she touched her
throat, a gesture no one noticed. It was only when pouring coffee that
her hand trembled so violently that the cup and saucer fell from her
hands.

“What made me do that?” she asked in a troubled whisper.

“It means that you’re going right back to bed for another rest before
the boys come to rehearse.” And with a great show of assumed
indifference, he persuaded her to lie down once more.

The telephone rang. Judy, struggling with steel wool and pot, paid no
heed to the insistent ring. Her father, still perched on the ladder
trying to fit a platter into a space several inches too low for its
bulk, said, “Take the phone, Judy.”

She dried her hands on her apron and unhurriedly reached the phone. No
one ever calls me, she thought with a touch of bitterness as she picked
up the receiver.

“Hello. Who’s this? Judy?”

“Yes, it’s me, Karl,” she answered, too surprised to say more.

“Is your father going to be home tonight? There’s something I’d like to
talk to him about.”

“Oh, Father?” An unreasoning resentment filled her. So it was her father
he wanted to see—not her! Maybe it was always her father, or her mother—

“He’s rehearsing tonight, that is, Mother is,” she said dully. “He’ll be
kind of busy.”

There was a long, disappointed, “Oh!” at the other end of the wire. Judy
clutched at a straw. With a quick, turnabout gayety, she said, “Other
people are available. Maybe—”

“Do you think I could come over and listen in?” Karl asked eagerly.
“Your father said I might come sometime but we never made it definite.
Then—I could see you too.” His voice rumbled away in silence.

“Hold the wire, Karl, I’ll ask him.”

She made a wild dash to the kitchen and found her father lighting his
pipe after his kitchen labors. She asked her question.

“Oh, I guess it’s all right. I did promise—”

She barely allowed him to finish and bounded back to the parlor,
knocking over a spindly chair in her marathon.

“Father says it’s all right. Yes, eight o’clock.”

She tore back to the kitchen, picked up a dust cloth, and began to tidy
up the place. She was considering her strategy. “I’ll ask him
immediately why he didn’t take _me_ into his confidence. And who is this
girl, this accompanist? I won’t beat about the bush and I won’t act as
if I cared.” She gave the table an extra rub and with a flourish of the
cloth she swept some sheets of music to the floor.

“My goodness!” her father exclaimed as he picked up the scattered
sheets. “What an eager beaver we’ve become! Is it Aspenitis or
Karlitis?” he said grinning.

Judy felt her cheeks grow hot. “Father,” she said, “if that’s the way
you appreciate my services, making despicable jokes—”

“Oh, come now, Judy, can’t you take a bit of razzing?” He looked at her
flushed face and said with great sweetness, “I’m glad you know Karl. I
think a lot of that boy and I don’t mean only in the music field. He has
character and a great deal of talent and with hard work, I think his
future looks bright. I’m trying to help him in a small way.”

She looked up gratefully. “Karl said he wanted to talk to you.” There
was much more she wanted to say but she suddenly remembered her hair,
her dress.

When the doorbell rang, a spruced-up Judy greeted the musicians and
Karl. The music stands were taken from the hall closet, the lamps moved
into place, and the men sat down busily chatting among themselves.

Judy motioned to Karl. “We can sit over here on this little sofa.” An
innate delicacy made her refrain from calling it “the Victorian
loveseat,” her mother’s term for this small, uncomfortable, but charming
little piece. “We can see and hear perfectly,” she said as they seated
themselves.

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

“I hear you’ve entered a competition for original compositions,” Judy
said, plunging right in without further preliminaries.

“Yes. I guess Lynne told you, although I did want to keep it a secret,”
he said somewhat sheepishly. “For one thing, it hasn’t been accepted as
yet. I wanted to surprise you. I’m still working on it.”

“I thought it was finished.”

“No. That’s what I wanted to consult your father about. Maybe I should
leave it with just a piano accompaniment since that’s pretty well worked
out and the accompanist plays it well.”

For one bleak moment Judy regretted she hadn’t touched the piano all
summer. If she had, maybe—Aloud she said brightly, “I hear your
accompanist is not only beautiful, but plays like an angel!”

Karl looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re driving at. Marie Hoeffer
is a fine young lady but she’s no Rubinstein, if that’s what you mean.”

Judy smiled her skepticism.

“She came to Aspen for a summer of music,” Karl went on, “but I guess
she’s chiefly concerned with having a good time,” he laughed
good-naturedly.

Judy knitted her brows. A serious musician one might respect. But for
someone to come to Aspen under the cloak of music deliberately to waylay
and ensnare a boy like Karl, that was a more serious matter!

The men were tuning their instruments and in the jangle of sounds she
remained silent. But her curiosity was sorely tried. How old was she?
Where did she come from? If from California or Maine or Alaska, all was
not lost! She would have to go back to those remote places—

“I hear she’s quite ancient,” Judy said at last, her voice drooling
sweetness.

Before Karl could gather up his forces to reply, Mrs. Lurie came into
the room. She looked beautiful but terribly pale.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you’ll forgive me,” she
said, speaking barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t keep us waiting at all,” Mr. Lurie said. “We had lots to
discuss. But now, my dear, we’re ready, if you are.”

Minna took up her position at the piano. Her husband tapped his bow and
the opening measures were begun. Minna was given her cue to start. She
sang a few bars, then stopped as if displeased with the tone.

Mr. Lurie held up his bow. “We’ll start again. We play five measures,
Minna, then you come in.”

The opening bars were repeated. Minna came in at the appropriate beat.
She sang three bars, then another. She opened her mouth for the next
high note. There was a hoarseness, a thickness, then nothing. Finally a
heartbroken whisper broke the strained silence.

“John, I can’t sing—I’ve lost my voice—”

In the confusion that followed, Judy only remembered the terror in her
mother’s eyes and her father’s gentleness as he calmed her.

“Karl,” Mr. Lurie said quietly, “Dr. Keene lives down the block. No use
telephoning, his wire is usually busy at this hour. Go quickly and tell
him to come.”

The musicians left, murmuring their sympathy. Mr. Lurie carried the
inert and almost helpless Minna to her bed. She was suffering now from a
chill and Judy, without having to be told, fetched the hot water bottle
and extra blankets.

She returned to the parlor and stared at the empty chairs, the shining
music stands, the blaze of lights. She began pacing the tiny room. All
these weeks she hadn’t given a thought to her mother, thought only of
Karl. She murmured an inarticulate prayer—“Oh, God, don’t take away her
voice. She’ll die if she can’t sing.” Her mother’s words spoken weeks
ago beat upon Judy’s memory. “Struggle to get this far—” Judy knew now
that it took a great deal to make an artist, hours, days, years of work.

“God,” she murmured again, putting her fist to her mouth to keep it from
trembling, “help her!”

She heard the back door open and then close. That must be the doctor.
The waiting was intolerable. She put away the stands and the lamps and
chairs were back in their accustomed places. Anything to keep busy! Karl
tiptoed into the room, “The doctor is with your mother.”

Judy nodded. He made her sit down and clumsily patted her shoulder.

At last Dr. Keene came into the room followed by Mr. Lurie.

The doctor smiled a greeting to Judy and told John to sit down. “I want
to talk to you,” he said in his breezy voice.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand. Shall I send the youngsters from
the room?”

“No, they can stay. Perhaps Judy can be of some help and, anyhow, it
will be necessary for her to understand her mother’s condition.”

“Yes, yes!” John said impatiently. “Go on!”

“You heard me tell Minna,” the doctor proceeded calmly, “there is no
visible damage to her throat or her vocal cords.”

“I thought you just said that to prevent her worrying, for psychological
reasons,” John interrupted.

“Partially,” Dr. Keene nodded in agreement. “But I am convinced also
this will clear up in a matter of days. If it shouldn’t,” he paused a
moment, “then other measures will have to be taken. But we’re going on
my diagnosis for the present until I see the necessity of changing it.”

John gave an audible sigh of relief.

“I’ve watched Minna all summer. She’s driven herself too hard,
particularly as she continues the same pace all winter. She’s overworked
and there are other contributing causes. Luckily, she has a fine
constitution, otherwise I wouldn’t be so optimistic.”

At last John seemed calm enough to sit down. “You’re right, of course. I
should have seen this thing coming. She’s taken this concert too
seriously—and her teaching and her own lessons—to say nothing of helping
students who should be on their own.” He spoke disjointedly. “She never
spares herself.” He shook his head. “Then there’s the house, the meals,
and she worries about Judy. I should have put my foot down,” he said
reproaching himself.

“No, John. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about a person who has
this excessive drive. Without it a great talent often peters out.”

Dr. Keene paused to light his pipe. “John, your wife needs rest, bed
rest, and she is absolutely forbidden to use her voice, even to whisper.
Whatever she requires or wishes to communicate must be written down.
With good, light, and nourishing food, plenty of fluids, and the
complete rest of her vocal cords, she will be all right.” He smiled
reassuringly at Mr. Lurie. “She’ll sing at the concert. I gave her my
promise and I mean to keep it.”

“Doctor, you can really promise—”

Dr. Keene nodded. “Unless something unforeseen—but I don’t anticipate
any complications. I’ve come across this condition several times,
particularly with pianists and singers. It is aggravated by too much
exposure to the sun, later followed by a chill, exactly as was the case
with Minna.”

The doctor looked thoughtful. “I would like to suggest you have a nurse
except that I know that one is impossible to be had. Our Pitkin County
Hospital is understaffed. Who’s going to help you, John? I know you’ve
got to teach. Classes must go on—”

“Private lessons can wait or be postponed. It’s the music school that
bothers me and—”

“Father,” Judy broke in, “you’re forgetting me. Dr. Keene said I could
help.”

“And I’ll take your place at camp,” Karl said eagerly. “It’s only
mornings and I can arrange it, if you wish, Judy.”

Dr. Keene got up. “That settles everything nicely. Judy, you and your
father will relieve each other. Remember again, absolute silence on your
mother’s part in her cure. I’ve given her a sedative and I advise you
and your father to go to bed.”

Mr. Lurie accompanied Dr. Keene to the door and Judy followed with Karl.
While the two men were exchanging some final words, Judy said, “I can’t
thank you enough, Karl, for offering to help at camp. But I’m worried,
too. You need every hour of practice.”

“Haven’t you enough on your mind without taking me on too? I’ll manage,”
he said cheerfully. “Besides, I want to help. I’m doing very little
really and Uncle Yahn won’t mind. He admires your family so much.”

He held Judy’s limp hand. “Don’t you understand how much your family
and—you have meant to me this summer?”

Dr. Keene motioned to Karl and said, “Come on, young man, we’ve got to
let these people get some rest.”

For four days Minna Lurie’s room was in semidarkness. No one rang the
doorbell and no one was permitted to telephone. The music students came
quietly, played with unusual softness and left just as unobtrusively.
When Judy saw the first one arrive, she was alarmed and hastily
inquired, “Shall I send the young Paderewski away?”

Minna wrote with a still unsteady hand, “No. Like hearing piano.”

Preparing three meals a day might have taxed an even older girl than
Judy, but her confidence was undaunted. No worker in a scientific
laboratory studied instructions with more meticulous care than Judy
lavished over the fine print on boxes of jell-o, cream of wheat, or
custard puddings.

The doctor smiled and told her a nurse couldn’t have been more
efficient. On the following day Minna was permitted to sit in a chair
for a few hours, the sun allowed to filter into the room.

Judy stood at the window, enjoying the play of the sunshine on the
trees. She turned as she heard the gentle tapping of the pencil. Minna
held up her pad. “I want you to go outdoors for a breath of air. Take a
long walk.”

“No, Mother. Father won’t be home for hours. I won’t leave until he—”

“I’m staying with Mother and you’re to go out,” Lynne said breezily as
she greeted them.

Judy warningly touched her lips. Lynne nodded, “I know the rules. I’ll
do all the talking. I’ve so much to tell Minna—Now run along. I only
have an hour and a half.”

As she followed Judy into the hall to speed her on her way, Judy asked,
“How’s Karl making out at camp?”

“Not badly, but nothing sensational. He has too much on his mind. Three
days were quite enough—I can manage for the rest of the time until you
get back. Now go! To use your own overworked phrase, ‘tempus fugit!’”

Judy stood on the porch, hesitating. Where? Her feet led her unerringly
to the practice room where she knew Karl would be working. She smiled
joyfully as she heard his violin. She could recognize that tone no
matter how many violins were playing! Hmmm, and that must be the
accompanist, Marian. She stepped inside and sat down unnoticed. The
playing went on. At a propitious moment of silence, she cleared her
throat noisily. Karl turned, saw her, a smile lighting up his face as he
waved his bow. The rehearsal went on. Talk—repetition of parts—more
talk. Judy sat wondering if she should leave. Then Karl’s voice, “Hold
it, Marian—”

He strode over to Judy. “It’s just wonderful to see you! I know your
mother’s coming along great. Your father and Lynne told me.” He looked
pensively at her, “You look peaked—”

“I’m all right, now that I know Mother’s going to be able to sing—How’s
the piece coming along?”

“Slowly. It sounds so wonderful in my head, but when it comes to setting
it down—it takes so much time and I feel so pressed for time—”

“I know. Sometimes I think of a story—everything seems so right until I
come to writing it down.” She looked at him smiling, “But you have a
wonderful basic theme. It has power to move one—nothing can spoil that.
Folk tunes could be introduced, you know, the way Dvorak did in his ‘New
World Symphony.’”

He shook his head approvingly. “I can clarify things just by talking
them out with you. I miss you, Judy—so much!”

“Me too,” the budding author sighed, throwing grammar to the winds.

An impatient chord at the piano—

“I can’t keep Marian waiting. Tomorrow she comes at one o’clock and
leaves at three—”

Another chord and the slightly sharp voice, “Work before pleasure—” and
Marian smiled with a condescending graciousness, “Hi, Judy!”

Judy smiled back absently. Karl was saying urgently, “Meet me here
tomorrow at three.”

Judy nodded, “I’ll arrange it somehow.”

When she reached home, Lynne was ready to leave. Mrs. Lurie’s eyes
brightened as she looked at her daughter. She hastily scribbled on her
pad and held it aloft, “You’ve color in your cheeks and your eyes have
their old luster. You’re one of those who blossom in sun and air.”

“Yes, Mother,” Judy sweetly agreed, but she was deeply aware of the real
reason for the glowing cheeks and brightened eyes—and judging from the
smile lurking on Lynne’s face, so was she!

That evening Mr. Lurie examined his schedule and announced with great
satisfaction, “Yes, I can come home early tomorrow—last session at
two-thirty. If I get a ride, should be here ten minutes later.”

By two-thirty Judy was dressed. Her mother was in a comfortable chair,
her music in her hands which she could study silently. That morning her
pad had pleaded for a rehearsal. The doctor was obdurate. “One hour
before you appear at the concert. Not before.”

Judy gave herself another fleeting glance at the mirror. The
candy-striped blue and white cotton with its full skirt looks cool, Judy
considered, even if I’m melting inside of it. The embroidered collar,
stiffly starched, scratched—but then, she smiled, Karl has never seen
this dress. Maybe it didn’t have the smart elegance of Marian’s tie
silk, but it was fresh looking!

As she glanced at the clock, now two-forty-five, she reviewed the things
she must tell her father—the egg nog, ready in the refrigerator, the
watercress sandwiches. She tiptoed into the bedroom.

Minna’s eyes opened. A descriptive arm indicated the window saying
plainly, “Why wait? Why don’t you leave now?”

“There’s not that much rush. I’ll play something. The P.S. (the family
abbreviation for Practice Student) hasn’t arrived. Something sweet and
soothing to induce sleep.”

Remembered bits of Chopin Nocturnes, the “Minute Waltz,” and the fingers
stumbled exactly at the same tricky places. Another look at the
clock—the piano was gladly relinquished to the late and harried P.S.

Judy went to the porch and anxiously scanned the street. She returned,
stared at the clock as its hands moved relentlessly. At five minutes to
four she heard her father’s leisurely step.

“You’re an hour later than you promised—” she said accusingly.

“Dear old faculty meeting—a special one!” he said apologetically. “You
needn’t hurry back. I’ll fix dinner—”

Judy was already at the door, mumbling something incoherently about egg
nog, refrigerator, watercress—hearing only her father’s puzzled
exclamation, “Where’s the fire?” as she recklessly rushed down the porch
steps.

The cool, refreshing wind blew through her hair, but she arrived at the
Hall hot and breathless.

Judy blinked. The room seemed dim after the sunlight. Two boys were in
the room, one at the piano, the other toying with an oboe or flute—she
couldn’t tell which. They stopped talking as she entered. She recognized
the colored boy whom she had met with Karl. “A brilliant student,” Karl
had told her, “completely at home in what must be a new and strange
environment.”

“Aren’t you James Powell?” she asked.

“Yes, of course, and you’re Judy. Hello!”

“Hello,” came in hollow tones from some remote region of Judy’s chest.
“You didn’t happen to see Karl here, did you?” she asked diffidently.

“He left with a very cute number some fifteen minutes ago,” the other
boy volunteered with an innocent smirk.

As Judy made no comment, James added quickly, “He seemed very put out,
Judy, he’d been waiting around so long—”

“Yes, I’m late, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“After supper I’ll stop at his home—I’ll give him a message for you.”

“Don’t bother, James, but thanks just the same.”

On the street, the warm sunshine enveloped her like a cloud. She raged
at herself, at her father. Why couldn’t he tell those stuffed shirts—And
Karl? Well, he just decided I couldn’t get away—and, of course, nobody
could use the phone. She tried not to feel hurt, yet he could have
waited a little longer.

Her dress looked squashed, the collar itched, her throat felt parched.
She was tired, too. All that useless running and waiting—and hungry. She
always felt hungry when she was miserable.

“No, I won’t go home and sit around while Father cynically probes, ‘Why
back so soon?’”

She opened her bag, powdered her shiny nose, wiped the perspiration from
her neck and face. A look into her change purse fortified her.

“I’m going to get the biggest chocolate fudge whipped cream ice cream
soda I can buy!”

She walked on aimlessly until she recognized the Cafe and Snack Bar
they’d visited the exciting night of the Juillard Concert. It seemed so
long ago! How happy she had been, sitting next to Karl—Lynne and Allen,
her mother and father—everyone so gay.

She stepped up to the entrance and looked in at the curtained window. It
was empty, except for a waiter. No, there in a far corner a table
glittered with silver and glassware, a teapot, cups and saucers. And
there—coming to the table was Karl! What heavenly luck! How surprised
he’ll be when he sees me! At that moment Marian sat down, some music
sheets in her hand. Judy stood there ashamed, unable to move! Their
heads were close together. Marian was laughing—and Karl looked, yes,
looked adoringly into her eyes, just as he looked at Judy at times. She
tore herself away.

She walked woodenly on the familiar and often dearly loved streets and
at last stumbled home, bone tired.

As soon as dinner was over and her mother comfortably in bed, Judy
pleaded weariness.

“Good idea for us all to get to bed early. Tomorrow is the big day,” her
father smiled.

“You’re sure Mother’s going to be able to sing? It’s wonderful, Father—”

Judy picked up her book, an ancient and much worn copy of _Les
Miserables_ that she had found in some neglected cabinet. The title
appealed to her. With a deprecating little smile at her father, she
ascended the staircase, much as Sidney Carton is said to have ascended
the gallows.

                            * * * * * * * *

It was a quarter to four on Wednesday afternoon. The Amphitheater, as
the Big Tent was sometimes called, was packed, every seat taken.

Judy, no longer the lonesome stranger of those first weeks in Aspen,
knew many people. The children of the camp were there. Even the youngest
came to hear his father play in the orchestra. They waved and smiled to
her and she waved back. But she was tense and frightened, impatient for
the concert to begin, and wishing it were over. Her mother was well, the
doctor was more than satisfied. But could that terrible thing happen
again—

Mr. Izler Solomon, the conductor, stood on the podium, bowing to
acknowledge the applause. Judy sat through Beethoven and Prokofieff,
hardly knowing which was which. Her mind was a blank, her heart was
pounding.

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

Minna Lurie stepped on stage, bowed at the ripple of applause. Judy
stared open-mouthed. Was that her mother? So poised, so beautiful, in
that shimmering green dress? Solomon lifted his baton. The orchestra
began.

Minna Lurie’s lovely voice, as if in defiance of the enforced rest,
filled the tent. The flute, then the oboe followed her clear notes. The
strings came in. Judy sat in a transport of joy. It seemed as if her
mother’s voice soared into the orange supports, into the poppy-colored
sides of the tent. She felt an ecstasy she had never experienced.

The applause was deafening. “Wonderful!” “Magnificent!”

Judy sat unable to move. Someone gripped her shoulder. It was Lynne.
Judy got up dazed. “Wasn’t she marvelous, Judy? I’m so excited!” Lynne
said.

People were leaving their seats and the crowd swirled around them. Lynne
said something about Saturday.

“What did you say, Lynne?” Judy asked.

“You remember. We’re going to Toklat and Ashcroft on Saturday.”

“But I thought you went last Saturday?”

“No, we wouldn’t go without you.” Lynne was pushed down the aisle.
“Saturday,” she repeated. “We’ll call for you at nine o’clock—”

Karl had made his way through the crowd. He pumped Judy’s hand until it
ached. The crowd moved toward the exits and Judy and Karl were carried
along in its stream. They stood at the tent opening, the large flaps
framing them. The field where hundreds of cars had been parked was being
emptied swiftly. Many young people, their arms linked, were walking over
the rough ground. Now the last stragglers appeared, the men of the
orchestra, carrying their instruments. Judy whispered, “Mother and
Father will soon be coming too.”

“Judy,” Karl said huskily, “why didn’t you come yesterday?”

“I couldn’t leave Mother,” she said, turning her head so that he
shouldn’t see the hurt that was all but forgotten.

The sky was beginning to darken. Something sang in their young hearts.
There was no need for words. They just stood there quietly, foolishly
smiling at nothing at all.




                                   11
                       JUDY, AMATEUR PSYCHOLOGIST


With the exaltation of a young acolyte returning to a sacred task, Judy
appeared at camp the morning following the concert.

“Now let’s feed the ducks. Who’s in charge?”

“Paul.”

Their white-feathered friends were placidly waiting at the water’s edge
and after they were fed, swam out toward the middle of the pond.

The children took their seats at the long wooden table.

“Where’s Willie?” Judy asked. “I saw him just a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t bother about him! He’s a pest!”

“But I must—Oh, there he is under the table.”

On being called and asked to sit with the others, Willie looked up and
shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

He seemed so content playing with his little mounds of dirt that Judy
didn’t insist. The children were waiting. She set bowls of wet clay and
tubes of paint on the table and distributed pipe cleaners.

“See how pliable they are. They bend easily to any shape and with a pair
of scissors can be cut any length. I’m going to try to make a man out of
this wire and fill in the face with clay.”

The little group became interested. They suggested their own ideas,
horses and snakes, violins and trombones. All were soon completely
absorbed. Judy, her head bent, was delicately painting the eyes and
mouth of her figurine. A stream of icy water descended on her back.
Jumping from shock and surprise, she lost her balance and fell from the
backless bench, her skirt flying ignominiously over her head. The
children were convulsed with laughter as the water continued its steady
stream.

Rising clumsily to her feet, she looked around for the cause. There a
few feet back of her sat Willie holding the garden hose while the
children frantically cried, “Turn it off!”

For one brief moment Judy stared at the little boy’s cherubic face. The
words of Gilbert and Sullivan flashed through her mind, “Let the
punishment fit the crime.” She grasped the hose and turned it on Willie.
“Now you know how it feels to get soaked to the skin with all your
clothes on.”

The children shouted their approval. “He deserves worse than that—”
“Always tinkering with that hose—”

Judy asked the children to go back and finish their projects. With as
much dignity as she could command, she and Willie, both dripping pools
as they walked, went toward the barn. Surprisingly enough, Willie hadn’t
uttered a sound nor shed a tear! She helped the boy change into a pair
of shorts discovered among the costumes and Lynne’s discarded bathrobe
did service for her. Together they hung their wet clothes on the fence
where the hot sun would soon dry them.

“Willie,” she said, “let’s sit on the grass for a few minutes before we
go back to the others.” She studied the boy and wondered what went on in
that little head, behind the woebegone little face.

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

“I thought you liked me—Don’t you?” She pleaded. “I had to punish you
for your naughtiness.”

He said nothing for a moment, then unexpectedly, he put his hand in
hers. “I didn’t mean to do anything bad.” His large eyes looked at her
earnestly.

“But, Willie, you’re not a baby. I’m afraid I’ll have to mention this to
your mother.”

“Mommy’s sick. She’s always sick. You mustn’t bother her.”

Judy was perplexed. “Willie,” she said gently, “tell me why you put the
hose on me?”

He looked at her as if surprised at her obtuseness. Then he blurted out,
“I wanted to water my garden and you were in the way.”

“Your garden? I didn’t see any garden.”

“Oh, yes, there was, right under the table. I just wanted to water it
the way I do at home.”

“I see,” Judy said, not really seeing but trying to understand.

“I can water all I like, all afternoon until Daddy gets home. Your hose
here is heavy. I couldn’t hold it right—”

While the little boy was talking, Judy vaguely recalled Allen’s speaking
about Willie’s parents. His mother had had a breakdown of some sort;
mountain air and rest were supposed to help. His father played the drums
and timpani in the orchestra and had a part-time job besides. The boy
was of necessity much alone. The camp had been such a happy solution.
But Judy had forgotten the story and its possible bearing on little
Willie.

“The next time you want to water your garden at camp, you must first ask
permission,” she said. She put her arms about the boy. “After all, I’m
not a tree.” They both laughed gaily. When they returned to the others,
Judy couldn’t help noticing an air of pleased expectancy on their faces
as if they rather hoped more fireworks were in order.

“Willie didn’t intend to do anything mean,” Judy said offhandedly. “He
was trying to water his garden,” and she pointed to the twigs planted in
the mud.

Happy to dismiss the subject, she asked, “Let me see, children, what
you’ve accomplished?”

She was delighted with their skill and assured them that the Aspen
church would want to acquire the animals and assorted instruments for
its bazaar. “Then your parents can buy them right back again,” she said
laughingly.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to let Willie take charge of feeding the ducks this
week? You don’t mind, Paul, do you?”

“But I do mind.”

“Look, Paul, Willie’s only five years old, the youngest in camp. Don’t
you think we could show him we don’t bear any grudge, that we trust him
enough to give him this responsibility?”

The appeal to Paul’s better nature succeeded and Willie was acclaimed
the mascot for the week. In the days that followed Willie followed Judy
about camp much as the little lamb is said to have followed Mary.

Several days later a jeep stopped at the camp entrance. Judy was in
charge as Lynne had taken a group horseback riding. A man stepped out of
the jeep and moved in long, easy strides toward them. She wondered who
he could be until she heard Willie joyfully call out, “Daddy! Daddy!”

She stopped the victrola and managed a sickly smile of welcome. Willie’s
father! He’s come to complain about the hosing I gave his boy—maybe
withdraw him from the camp?

The man gave a brisk, “Hello, kids!” and stopped to rough up his little
boy’s hair. He was young and handsome.

“Are you Judy?” he asked, addressing her.

She nodded and murmured, “Yes.”

“I was driving by. I can only stay for a minute. Is Lynne around?”

“No. Is there anything I can do?” she asked weakly.

“Just tell Lynne I wanted her to know how sorry I was to have missed
Parents’ Day. I couldn’t get away.”

“Whew!” Judy almost said aloud in relief. “I’ll tell her,” she smiled
for the first time.

“But it’s you I really came to see.”

“Me?” She was thankful the children had run off to play. She was
beginning to marshal her defenses as to just why she had done what she
had—

“Yes, you,” he repeated. “That’s what I wanted to talk to Lynne about.
Willie’s mother asked me to give you a present but I don’t know what
girls like—I thought Lynne would help me out. But never mind—” and again
he smiled.

“But I don’t deserve—I’m very fond of Willie but—” Her words tumbled
over each other.

Before she could protest any more, he stuck some bills in her hand. “Get
something for yourself, please,” and with a hasty “good-bye,” he was
gone.

She had come into a fortune of three dollars. After the first pleased
sensation of having money of her own, she pondered on how to spend it.
That very afternoon she went to the library to secure the book on Aspen
history that had been waiting for her and her dollar deposit for over a
month. The rest of the money went for presents; a beautiful linen
handkerchief for her grandfather, no trouble about that. He adored fine
handkerchiefs! Grandmother’s was more difficult. After much hesitation,
examining each case of knickknacks with the greatest care, she finally
selected a brooch made of two crossed skis. Still she hesitated. Suppose
Grandma doesn’t like it? She never likes any present. Judy heard her say
time and again to anyone who gave her a gift, “Now why did you have to
spend money on me? You know I don’t need anything!” Judy gave the brooch
another admiring look. “Well,” she confided to the all-too-patient
shop-owner, “if Grandma doesn’t like it, it certainly won’t be wasted.
It’ll look stunning on my sweaters.”

Nor was Willie left out of her calculation. Once her deposit was
returned, he too would get a present. That was only fair, she decided,
since he was the author, so to speak, of her good fortune.

She reached home tired and hungry.

Her father was sitting at a desk absorbed. He looked up at her with an
abstracted air and said, “Mother went out marketing. Got a chance to go
in somebody’s car. She’ll be back soon. Have a nice day?”

“Lovely,” and Judy patted the gift-wrapped package. She watched him
silently for a while. Writing music out of your head without playing an
instrument was something she couldn’t fathom. He continued writing.

“I’ll set the table,” she offered. “Anything else?”

“No—well, yes. There’s the music stands to pull out. I borrowed some
extra ones. There’ll be eight of us, I imagine.”

“What, a rehearsal again?” Judy asked. “I thought you and Mother were
going to have people over tonight just to have fun.”

Mr. Lurie got up and reluctantly closed his desk. “So we are,” he smiled
at her. “Whenever musicians get together, they make music. That’s their
fun.”

“Hmmmm,” was all Judy said.

“What’s that book you brought home?” He glanced at the title. It was his
turn to say, “Hmmmm.”

“You’ve forgotten, Dad, I’m going with Lynne and Allen to Ashcroft. I
thought I’d give Lynne a shock by surprising her with my knowledge of
the history of these parts around here. No one seems to know anything
about Ashcroft.”

“Very commendable,” her father said seriously. “By the way, if you
should uncover any clues to hidden treasures overlooked by the early
settlers, let me know. A few silver nuggets would come in very handy.”

“Oh, Father,” Judy said impatiently. It’s no use, she decided.

During dinner Mr. and Mrs. Lurie were discussing the next important
event of the concert season. In addition to the regular program,
original compositions would be played. The judges would make the award
to the composer of the best piece of original music and to the most
promising conductor.

“Is Karl’s composition going to be played that day?”

“No,” her father answered, “he’s not satisfied with it.” But added with
real conviction, “I’m certain it will be heard later.”

Judy immediately lost interest in their talk and pointing to her book,
asked to be excused. “I have work to do too.”

Her mother appeared impressed. But her father said, with that dead-pan
expression he loved to assume, “I hope the Beethoven Quintet will
provide pleasant background music for your scholarly labors.”

Giving him scarcely a smile, although she was laughing inwardly, she
ostentatiously picked up the library book and went to her room.

Propped up in bed, surrounded with well-sharpened pencils, reams of
paper and her diary, she turned on her radio tuned to some weird jazz.
She began to read.

The idea of writing a story for the _Plow_, while still nebulous, had
not been discarded. If she wrote something that would stun her
classmates into admiration—

Facts, dull facts: drilling—pumps—shafts—mining operations. It was
disappointing!

Undiscouraged she plodded on, skipping whole pages. At last she was
rewarded by a tiny paragraph that she recorded on her note pad.

“Aspen, situated in one of the most beautiful valleys of the world, is
surrounded by giant mountains which guard her treasures. Ashcroft, her
near neighbor, just as beautifully situated, makes the picture complete.
Together, their silvery riches give promise of greater treasure than has
yet been found in the marvelous state of Colorado. Who can foretell the
future?”

Judy looked blankly at the word “future.” “That rosy future had come and
gone,” she sagely commented to herself. But how did it all start? By
more diligent searching, she discovered something more of the early
beginnings of Aspen and an occasional reference to Ashcroft. Again she
faithfully recorded a brief summary of her findings.

“Henry Gillipsie, a man of thirty-one, a graduate of Kansas Agricultural
College, left his home to seek his fortune mining gold. When he reached
Leadville, the town was in a ferment. Silver had been discovered in the
mountains of Colorado! He turned from his dreams of gold to the surer
thing—silver. True, there had been news of an Indian uprising; a United
States Major had been killed and some soldiers, but Gillipsie made up
his mind to go. He got a horse and a pack mule, took his son and
persuaded a friend to join him. Some twenty-five other prospectors
followed Gillipsie’s trail. All staked out their claims, Gillipsie even
buying two mountains. Although a truce had been concluded with the
Indians, Gillipsie and the others decided to return to Leadville.
Besides the Indians, winter was coming on. But he was no sooner back
than he began worrying about his holdings. Once the thaw set in,
thousands would go over Independence Pass and might take possession of
his claims. He told his fears to a friend who knew all about mines and
mine country.

“‘How can we get across the Pass in winter? The reports are terrible.
Men and mules bogged down in snow—broken legs—starvation.’

“Together they worked out a plan. They built snow boats of good, strong
lumber and loaded them with two hundred pounds of provisions and plenty
of blankets. The boats, really giant sleds, would be pulled by miners.
All would travel only at night when the snow was hard-packed, making the
going easier.

“Still the men objected. ‘How do you expect us to walk over snowdrifts
twenty-five feet deep?’

“Undaunted, Gillipsie and his friend had the answer. ‘We’ll need
snowshoes. Since we can’t get the webbed kind, we’ll make them out of
board, eight feet long, the way the Norwegians do.’

“When Gillipsie and his fourteen men, a strange looking pilgrimage,
arrived at their camp, Aspen’s mining history began.

“More settlers arrived, lured on by the tales of fabulous riches. They
spread out to Ashcroft, only twelve miles away. The success of Horace
Tabor, the owner of the two most famous mines in Ashcroft, stimulated
the miners.” (Horace Tabor, the romantic figure who loved Baby Doe) she
parenthesized, for the benefit of her grandfather.

“But Ashcroft developed slowly. The mountains were not only high but
inaccessible. Progress was slow. In the meantime, Aspen moved on to
quicker glory. A one-gauge railroad—buildings went up at terrific
speed—churches, schools, a bank, the _Aspen Times_—living expenses were
high—flour cost one dollar a pound.”

The music from her radio egged on Judy’s flagging spirit. Further
reading only revealed the names of Tabor’s two mines at Ashcroft. It was
in vain she looked for more news of Baby Doe. There was nothing. Only
the gloomy recital of the ruined silver kings.

History book and diary fell off the bed. She switched off the lights and
turned off the radio. The researcher wearily yawned and slept.




                                   12
                        ASHCROFT, THE GHOST TOWN


The weather all summer had been fine. When there was an occasional
shower it came, considerately enough, late in the afternoon. It never
interfered with the outdoor activities and indeed was only noticed by
the concert-goers, who heard the brief but heavy drumming on the canvas
of the huge tent.

This Saturday morning was no exception. The sun rose brilliantly and the
air was crystal clear, a perfect day for the excursion to Toklat. To
Judy there was only one drawback: if only Karl could have come. Yet he
might turn up with Fran, late in the afternoon.

She paced the walk outside her home. Lynne and Allen were late. She
thought of that silly old adage about the early bird! All those pancakes
she’d left uneaten! There’s such a thing as being too prompt! But, she
grudgingly remembered, in that not so distant past she had been the one
for whom others had waited.

At last their station wagon approached.

“We overslept!” Lynne gaily announced as the car stopped. Judy climbed
in.

The winding road to Toklat hugged the mountain and although Allen drove
at only a moderate speed, a number of furry animals, feeling much at
home in the early morning stillness, flipped across their path to escape
only just in time! Once they all breathlessly exclaimed, “There’s a
deer,” but it was so fleet of foot as it bounded into the woods that
they couldn’t be sure.

At the entrance to Toklat was a handsome wood and stone structure,
Toklat Lodge. Early as it was, people were already lined up to make
their reservations for the luncheon they hoped to enjoy later. The food
at the Lodge was famous. Everyone knew about the gourmet dishes and the
perfection of its service. But Lynne, with a shade of regret in her
voice said, “That kind of elegance is not for us or our budget.
However,” she smiled as she indicated the lunch basket on the back seat,
“we’ve come prepared.”

They parked the car in the shade of some trees and beyond a log fence
enclosure they could see the heavy wooded area where the dogs lived. Mr.
Mace, they were told, would arrive later to take visitors through the
gate and see and hear all about the Huskies.

On the other side of the road stretched a vast, treeless meadow abruptly
ended by the range of mountains rising sheer from the valley. There were
some houses sparsely set in the field.

“Is that part of Toklat, too?” Allen asked the man idly standing guard
at the gate.

“Nope,” came the laconic answer. “That’s Ashcroft.”

In the clear sunlight the houses seemed close at hand. They could count
eight, maybe ten. Judy recalled the description of Ashcroft described in
her library book, “The giant mountains guarding their silvery treasure.”
She wondered what there was to guard in that desolate spot now. She was
eager to go there at once. The tour could wait. Judging by the crowds
already arrived, there would be a number of tours. Besides, if Karl did
come, he would expect to meet her at Toklat.

Lynne agreed, but Allen preferred to remain in the hope of having a few
words alone with Stuart Mace. They would meet later “over there,”
meaning Ashcroft.

“And don’t forget the lunch,” Lynne cautioned.

Crossing the rough fields overgrown with wild, prickly grasses, they
soon came close enough to see the houses—large, three stories high, the
frames of gray, weather-beaten timber, ageless. Two of them had wooden
signs nailed over the entrance, “Groceries,” “Drygoods.” They tried to
look in and discover if anything remained of the boasted merchandise.
But the windows were barred. They walked down to another house further
down the field, but that too had the doors and every window boarded up.

“You’d think from the care with which they closed the houses they
expected to return,” Lynne said wonderingly.

All had the sad, forlorn look of houses long empty and deserted. But one
house, larger than the others, gaped wide open. Glad of the opportunity
at last to satisfy their curiosity as to what the interior might be
like, they stepped inside. Had vandals carried away the staircase to the
upper chambers, or torn out the partitions that must have once divided
this huge room?

The window frames in the upper portion of the house were hung with vines
through which no ray of sun could penetrate. From the heavy beams under
the roof, wisps of clothes waved weird and ghostlike in the slight wind.
The two girls stood huddled together and felt like intruders as they
talked of the people who once must have lived there. Judy, her
imagination in full flight, pointed to the tattered garments.

“Look, I can make out a miner’s cap—and there’s an old bearskin coat.
They probably had to shoot the bear, eat the meat—bear meat is very
good, you know—and then use the fur to keep from freez—”

She stopped in the middle of her rhapsody. A pair of small beady eyes
looked down on her. She could distinguish a wing—then another. It moved!
more wings—more beady eyes. Wings fluttered—began to circle near them.

“Bats! The place is full of them. They can attack us—get into our hair!”

Without a moment’s delay, they flung hands over their heads and rushed
to get out, stumbling over the ancient doorsill in their hasty exit.

Once out in the sunny meadow, Lynne laughed at herself. “I feel like a
goose running out the way I did. Who ever heard of bats attacking
anyone?”

“Is that so?” Judy said warmly. “One night a few summers back a bat got
into my bedroom. It flapped around horribly, looking for me. I still get
the creeps when I think of it. If Grandpa hadn’t come in—”

“O.K. I’ve heard of bats in the belfry,” Lynne said dryly, “but never
mind. Have it your own way.”

They walked on to examine the few remaining houses. Except for the ruins
of a fence and an upside-down hut that was probably once an outhouse,
nothing remained to indicate that people once lived there.

“Ashcroft is sure a ghost town,” they both agreed.

They started to trudge back. They had gone further than they expected
and found the walking hard and tiring. When they stopped once or twice
to rest, they thought they heard the unmistakable chop chop of an ax.
Following the direction of the sound, they came upon a cabin, no larger
than a good-sized woodshed. Near it stood a man swinging his ax with an
easy, steady rhythm.

He looked up as they approached and said, in answer to their greeting,
“’Tis a fine morning.” He nodded and smiled at them.

They could see at once that he was old, very old. His face was
crisscrossed with fine lines, but his blue eyes were bright and he held
himself so erect that Judy involuntarily straightened her slumping
shoulders.

“Isn’t that pretty strenuous?” Lynne asked, pointing to the huge tree he
was splitting.

He smiled again. “I’m eighty-two and never felt better. We’ll need all
the wood we can cut.” He spoke with the pride of the very old whom the
years have used well.

Judy walked closer to the cabin and the door being ajar, she looked
inside—two cots, some shelves sparsely stacked with cans of soup, some
other foodstuffs.

“You don’t live here, do you?” she asked, her voice incredulous as she
again faced the old man.

“Yes. My pal and I, we live here. We’re the only two natives left in
Ashcroft.”

“You are?” Lynne and Judy said in one voice.

“Let’s stay here for a while,” Judy whispered. “The meadow’s so flat, we
can’t help seeing Allen when he comes looking for us.”

Lynne nodded. “May we sit here a little while and rest, Mister? We
expect to meet someone later.”

He seemed pleased. “I’m glad of your company.” He picked up his ax and
placed it against the woodpile.

“Set yourselves down. Make yourselves comfortable—the logs or the
grass.”

He sat down on the fallen tree and Judy, on the stiff undergrowth,
looked up at him with deep, commiserating eyes.

“I don’t see how you can bear to live in that little cabin all winter. I
should think you’d die of lonesomeness or freeze to death!”

“It’s never that cold, Miss. The sun’s good and hot even on the coldest
days. And I’m used to it.”

He looked at Lynne. “Came here as a boy when my father worked in the
silver mines and I’ve stayed here, off and on, ever since.”

He fished out a pipe from his shirt pocket and the girls watched the
gnarled fingers first clean it and then stuff it with some yellowish
weed.

“Was Ashcroft ever like Aspen? You know what I mean, well populated,
with lots of mines?” Lynne asked, as the old man puffed contentedly on
his pipe.

“Well, yes and no. Ashcroft was built up before Aspen, but Aspen got
ahead faster.”

“Why?” Judy asked.

“I’ll tell yer. For one thing, the mines out this way were hard to work
and new mines weren’t easy to locate. At Aspen things were different.
New veins kept on being opened all the time and they weren’t so hard to
mine. Nature favored it more, or maybe it was better equipment. Anyhow,
prospectors and settlers both got discouraged. They gradually took off.
Yep, they just moved away. A lot of them dragged their houses with them
by mule team.”

“What about Montezeuma and Tam-o-shanta? They were here. Horace Tabor
made a big success of his mines.” Judy wagged her head in the manner of
one who had spent her life in the bowels of the earth.

Lynne looked at her in surprise. “How do you know?”

“Oh, I’ve been reading up about it,” she answered with a superior smile.

But the old man saw nothing strange in Judy’s erudition.

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

“The young lady’s right,” he said. “Montezeuma had plenty of good ore
and it did well. Made Tabor a tidy fortune. But it was too high. Nearly
thirteen thousand feet. Dragging supplies out there was hard, but only a
man like Tabor could make a good thing of it.” He nodded at them and a
great smile spread over the wrinkled face, deepening the two well-marked
furrows around his jaw.

“Tabor built a mansion out here, real elegant, gold paper on the walls.
Built it for Baby Doe. That’s the second Mrs. Tabor that maybe you heard
about.”

“Yes. Did you ever see her?” Judy asked, with mounting interest.

“Well, in a manner of speaking. Saw her coming and going. The day she
came out to see Montezeuma, Tabor was that happy he declared a
twenty-four-hour holiday for everyone working in the mine. He was a real
silver king.” The old man shook his head appreciatively. “He treated
everyone that day to all the liquor he could drink.”

But his smile quickly faded. “Augusta got that mine too.” He sat
thinking for a moment. “Not that you can altogether blame her, the first
Mrs. Tabor. She’d helped him when he was—well, nobody. And now that he
was rich and famous, she wanted to hold on. Guess she loved him, so she
said right out in all the newspapers.”

“Augusta seems to have done very well for herself,” Judy commented
sternly.

Again Lynne lifted her eyebrows. She was certain now Judy had been
boning up not only on the history but on the gossip column of those
days.

“Well, did Horace Tabor and his new love live happily ever after?” Lynne
asked lightly.

Judy brushed aside the question. “What happened after the Silver Panic,
Mister? Did Baby Doe leave Tabor when he became poor?”

“No, Miss.” The answer was emphatic. “She stuck to him through thick and
thin. Nobody expected it of her—she was that young and handsome. When
she married Tabor, the biggest people in Washington came to the wedding.
Tabor was an important man, not only rich. He’d done a lot for
Leadville—the opera house and then at Denver, built a hotel and lots
more.

“The State of Colorado was grateful and he become a Senator for a
while.” His words came more slowly as if the embers of his excitement
had died out like his pipe.

“Well, Augusta made such a scandal of his leaving her that she spoiled
his chances in politics. Then comes the Panic—1893! Baby Doe, from being
the millionaire darling of a silver king, came down to even taking in
washing. She proved herself a good wife and faithful.”

“I knew she would,” Judy said triumphantly. She wanted to know more. “Is
that all?” she asked.

“No.” The old man shook his head gravely. “As I was saying, Tabor lost
everything and what he didn’t lose, he’d given to Augusta. She was rich
and stayed rich. All that remained to Tabor was one mine. He still owned
Matchless. It wasn’t paying any but he had great faith in it. When he
was on his deathbed, he tells Baby Doe, ‘Hold on to Matchless. It’ll
make a fortune yet.’”

“And did it?” Judy asked anxiously.

The old man shook his head. “She held on to it because Tabor told her.
She become that poor, she didn’t have a roof over her head. So she moved
out to the mine. Lived alone in a one-room cabin.”

He leaned forward, holding his young listeners.

“Gettin’ enough to eat wasn’t all her trouble. Tax collectors came out
to the mine and she held them off with a gun. But she had friends who
stuck by her, respected her grit, like that Jacob Sands of Aspen and
some others, I forget the names. They spent money to clear her title to
Matchless so that she could hold on to it, to the very end. She held it
for forty years, but it never paid any.” He sighed deeply.

“They found her one day, her body dressed in rags, her feet covered with
newspapers to keep out the cold—found her frozen to death.”

For a while no one spoke. Then as if wishing to break the pall of
sadness that engulfed him, Lynne asked, “Do you ever get to Aspen?”

“Sometimes. We have friends over there,” and he pointed in the direction
of Toklat.

Looking across the field, they saw Allen coming toward them with great
long strides. “Had a wonderful time with Mr. Mace,” he said as soon as
they were within earshot. Then coming closer he noticed the old man.
Allen’s eyes seemed to ask, “Where did you pick up this ancient?”

“Allen,” Lynne said quickly, “this gentleman is one of the two natives
of Ashcroft—and still lives here.”

“I’m happy to know you,” Allen said, shaking his hand.

They repeated the Baby Doe story for Allen’s benefit as they spread
their lunch, which they insisted the old man share with them. When they
left, he stood there waving, a tall spare figure, framed by the deserted
houses and the brooding mountains.

Allen hurried them along. “What an extraordinary man Mace is! What skill
he uses in handling his dogs!”

“What’s so special about that?” Judy asked, still ruminating about the
ups and downs of Baby Doe. “Horses pull wagons and dogs pull sleighs.
Why is Mr. Mace so wonderful?”

“For one thing, kid,” Allen said, annoyed at Judy’s lack of enthusiasm,
“he was with the ski troops that saw Arctic duty in World War II. He
learned about dogs the hard way.”

Allen turned to a more appreciative audience. “Lynne, I guess none of us
realized what these mountain troops went through out in that wasteland
of snow and ice. The pilots they saved, the planes and cargo they
salvaged—”

“What had the dogs to do with the pilots?” Judy asked.

“Fierce storms often forced the planes down,” Allen explained patiently.
“Mace was in charge of a division whose job it was to search for and
rescue the flyers and, of course, to save the air cargo on which their
lives depended. You see, Judy, only dogs and dog-sleighs can travel over
that sort of country.”

They moved along at a snail’s pace as Allen became more and more
engrossed in his subject. “Mr. Mace had to train the dogs, keep the
drivers from fighting each other. Tempers get ugly under such
conditions. The war went on. Sleighs wore out. He had to make new
ones—new equipment.” Allen shook his head. “Mace is a modest man. You
have to drag the story out of him.”

“How did he happen to get to Ashcroft?” Lynne asked.

Allen laughed. “I asked him that myself. It seems that when the war was
over, they didn’t know what to do with those wonderful dogs. The top
brass ordered them sold. Mace said he’d grown to love working with dogs.
The thought of giving it up made him wretched. He saved some money and
he bought all the top-strain dogs he could afford. He and his wife
decided to take their dogs to Aspen to breed and train them, as a
hobby.”

“What did he do before the war?” Lynne asked.

“Some kind of research on flowers that grow on the Rocky Mountain
slopes. But when he came back, there was no interest in that sort of
thing. And there weren’t any jobs that he could find to do around Aspen.
So he decided to move out to Ashcroft. Land was cheap and snow lay on
the mountains seven months of the year. Dog-sledding and skiing had
become a great national sport. So he decided to turn his hobby into a
job! He and Mrs. Mace worked through one summer and a long hard winter
to build the log and stone lodge we passed. Guests can stay there and
enjoy long trips into the mountains with the dog-sled teams and—”

Lynne, interrupting him with a laugh, said, “You’re so wound up talking
about Mr. Mace, you forgot about the tour. I can see from here people
crowding through the gate.”

They made the remaining distance on the run. They arrived in time to
join the twenty or thirty others all trying to squeeze as close as
possible to the owner and guide, while Judy unabashed scrutinized every
likely or unlikely person that might be Karl.




                                   13
                              THE HUSKIES


Stuart Mace was dressed in well-fitting khaki trousers and a plaid shirt
open at the throat. His sturdy bronzed neck suited the finely molded
features of his face and his smile was warm and friendly.

“As you see,” he began, “we have a great family of dogs, bred for hard
work in the mountains, ice and snow. From our original nine dogs we have
eighty, among them some of the finest leaders and teams in the country.”

He motioned the group to follow him. Individual kennels shaded by trees
extended in all directions. The dogs, tied by long leashes, had a great
deal of freedom. They looked at the visitors unmoved. None barked. Mr.
Mace pointed out common characteristics: their large, long-haired
bodies, the markings on their bodies, their intelligent faces, their
long pointed ears and bushy tails. As Mr. Mace passed the dogs, he
fondled them and those who were by chance overlooked snuggled up to him
and their eyes begged for his caress.

“Let’s have a look at some of the very young dogs,” Mr. Mace said, the
crowd at his heels. He picked up a beautiful furry puppy and held him in
his arms like a baby.

“This Alaskan dog is only three months old. We know by this time that
she will never do the work our dog teams must do.”

“How do I know?” Mr. Mace smiled at the man who asked the question.

“We have our way of knowing. When I decide that such is the case, we
sell them as pets. They make good watch dogs and are gentle and
affectionate.”

“What does it cost to buy such a puppy?” Allen asked in a low voice.

“About a hundred dollars, only what it cost us to raise and feed the dog
for the three months.”

Judy looked at Allen, who was whispering something to Lynne.

In that momentary lull she could hear Lynne’s answering whisper, “But
what would we do with him when you’re away on tour for eight weeks and
I’m busy teaching?”

“When do you throw them the meat?” a little boy asked as they went on
among the older dogs.

“We’re not in the zoo, my little friend. No lions or tigers here,” Mace
replied with a grin. “These dogs are never fed any meat. Up in the
Arctic regions, the dogs get walrus and chunks of seal. But here, it’s
not necessary. See that box of food next to each kennel? When a dog is
hungry, he goes over and eats what he wants of it. It’s a mixture of the
best scientific foods these dogs require.” He pointed to the pans of
water near each kennel. “They need lots of water during the summer
months, but in the winter the snow is enough.”

“Gee, these dogs are kind of lazy—the way they just sit around.” Mr.
Mace overheard the little boy’s complaint.

Mr. Mace smiled at the boy. “Don’t you think these dogs deserve a rest
after working hard from November through April? This is their vacation,
son,” he said kindly. “That’s how we keep them fit and happy.”

They were now among the full-grown dogs selected for their team work.
“Eight, ten, sometimes twelve dogs make a team,” Mr. Mace explained,
“depending on the distance to be traveled and the load to be pulled. The
dogs are harnessed in pairs, but the leader runs in single harness in
front. Teams must be well matched, not only for beauty and appearance,
but in strength and size. But the leader is the prize of the pack—like
this one here.” Mr. Mace bent over to pet him.

“He’s pure Malamute strain. That’s one of the best. See his powerful
chest, his long bushy tail, like the others, only longer and bushier.
Look at his feet, those powerful nails, the short hair cushioning the
toes, the long hair between. He is sure-footed, intelligent, and has a
fine sense of smell. Never forgets a road once he’s been over it, never
forgets commands once they’ve been mastered. And he has character! Don’t
laugh,” he smiled at Judy. “This dog has got character. He demands
obedience from his team. Where he goes, the team must follow.”

Mr. Mace turned his attention to a large handsome dog that seemed
unresponsive to his petting. “She’s Eskimo, and she’s brooding. We took
away her puppies some days ago and she’s still unhappy.”

A little boy, more venturesome than the others, went over to her. “Don’t
go near her,” Mr. Mace said. “She’s not vicious, none of them are, but
she’s best left alone at present.”

The crowd moved on. The boy who had just been admonished stood in front
of the kennel watching the sulky animal. As Judy tried to pass, the boy
stood talking to the dog.

“What’s the use of being sore?” He stepped closer. “Come on, let’s shake
hands.”

The dog lifted her leg and gave the boy’s chest a shove. He went down as
if hit by a load of bricks. The boy lay there, stunned. Judy screamed,
“Mr. Mace! Mr. Mace!”

It was her frightened call that brought Mr. Mace loping back. He picked
up the frightened boy and said severely, “You’re not hurt, but I warned
you to let that dog alone.”

Mr. Mace walked on and the group, a little sobered, followed.

“How much cold can these dogs stand?” Lynne asked.

“In the far north they can take a temperature that goes to sixty or
seventy degrees below zero. We, of course, haven’t such extremes of cold
here, but it’s plenty cold in the mountains in the winter. When we take
people on our sledding trips over snow-covered trails, we stop overnight
at a cabin we’ve built. Our riders enjoy a good fire, a comfortable bed
and a meal.

“But,” he went on, “the dogs are just unharnessed, fed, and go to sleep
in the snow. You’ve noticed these Huskies have thick coats of fur and
nature further protects them with a wool matting close to their hide. So
you see,” and he smiled at Lynne, “these dogs can stand all kinds of
weather.”

“Look at that dog there,” a woman exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such a
handsome dog! His black markings on the forehead and nose are so
striking against his white coat!” All turned to look. “See how he stands
there as if he enjoyed our admiration.”

“Of course, she does,” Mr. Mace said. “She’s our prima donna, one of our
famous movie stars. She’s only completely happy when she’s in front of a
movie camera.”

“Can she do some tricks for us now, please?”

“I’m afraid not. Our dogs have performed often right out here in these
very mountains. You’ve probably seen them on your own TV’s at home,
thinking they were made in the Arctic! But most often when Hollywood
needs our dogs, we just board a plane and go there.”

There was more, much more. Eighty dogs are a lot of dogs to see and Judy
must have looked as she felt, very weary. The tour was over.

As they neared the exit, Mr. Mace turned to the crowd still following
him. “Like to hear my dog concert?”

“Sure!” everyone said.

“Kyloo,” Mr. Mace addressed a powerful Husky whose kennel was near, “how
about some music for these nice people?”

Kyloo didn’t seem interested.

“Now come on, Kyloo,” Mr. Mace’s voice was coaxing. “Don’t be shy. I’ll
start you off.”

Mr. Mace thrust back his head and a loud, prolonged wail came from his
throat.

Kyloo didn’t need any more urging. He tilted back his head, opened his
wide jaws and the same powerful, prolonged note issued from his throat.
It re-echoed through the grove and grew in volume as the wail was taken
up by the eighty dogs.

It was a strange, primitive call, high and piercing. Yes, it was a kind
of song, the dogs’ farewell to the visitors, farewell in music.

While Allen stayed on to take some snapshots of the dogs, Lynne and Judy
followed others into the Arctic Trading Shop, a lovely log cabin
displaying rare and unusual things. When at last Allen joined them, they
returned to the car to drive back to Aspen.

It was only as they drove through Main Street past the Ski Lodge and
Chairlift that Judy suddenly remembered.

“Allen,” she said, putting her hand on the wheel, “aren’t we going up
the Chairlift? You promised!”

“Judy, I hate to say it, but the answer is ‘no.’”

“Why?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

“Well,” Allen said slowly as if to lessen the blow, “chiefly because
Lynne and I went up last Saturday.”

“You went up?” Judy repeated, reluctant to believe such treachery, going
up without her!

Allen nodded. “You see, a lot of Festival people planned the trip,
getting some special rate and Lynne and I couldn’t resist a bargain!
But, Judy,” Allen smiled sheepishly, “I think we’re sort of glad you
weren’t along to witness our disgrace. We got off at Midway!”

“How could you get off when the chairs keep moving all the time? The
machinery never stops. I’ve watched it a hundred times.”

“Well, it takes a bit of agility, but everyone has to get off at Midway
for a few minutes. The mechanism changes direction at that point. You
walk a few feet and leap on again. That’s where the chair immediately
swings out over a bottomless chasm! I decided I had enough! Dangling
like a clothes hanger from that slender cable was too much for me. I had
no stomach to ride over that yawning abyss and then ascend to thirteen
thousand feet!”

Judy looked at Lynne. “Is he joking? He gave up just like that?”

“We gave up, just like that,” Lynne said laughing. “Allen shouted to me,
‘I’m getting off at Midway. Not going further. You keep going if you
wish, but I don’t think it sensible.’

“Jouncing along, my nerves a bit jittery, I guess I was secretly glad
and yelled back, ‘I will too.’ My young campers were below me, swinging
along, waving their hands and laughing. I knew we would have to brave
their jeers, if not their scorn. But we did.” Lynne and Allen exchanged
glances as if there were some reason for their lack of hardihood.

“So like a cautious young couple with good reasons for our caution,”
again that special smile for Allen, “we walked down a steep mining road
that took us back to Aspen. It was wonderful even if we didn’t get to
the top.”

Allen patted Judy’s shoulder. “I guess it isn’t so bad when the
mountains and the chasm are blanketed in snow. Leave something for
another time or another year. You’ll be coming to Aspen again. Everyone
does.”

“I hope so,” Judy said with forced resignation. Then she remembered
Ashcroft and the dogs. “It’s been such a perfect day. How can I ever
thank you!”

The car pulled up in front of Judy’s house. “I’m sorry we can’t stop
in—marketing, and dinner still to get,” Lynne said. “We’ll see Mother
and Dad in a few days—we have something very special to tell them.”

Judy wondered.

Lynne went on, “You know, Allen and I feel flattered. You didn’t mention
Karl’s name once all day!”

“But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t think of him. Everytime I looked at
those gorgeous Eskimo dogs with their sad, dreamy eyes, I thought of
Karl. Isn’t that strange?”

“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Lynne laughed. “I’m afraid you’ve got
a real case! Good-bye, dear!”

“Good-bye!”

“Something special to tell them?” Judy repeated to herself as she slowly
mounted the porch steps. “Maybe that’s why Allen didn’t want Lynne to go
further on the Chairlift. After all, they are married two years—”




                                   14
                         “CONFIDENTIALLY YOURS”


“... and so, dear Grandpa, I’ve brought you up on all the latest news.
One or two things more. Mother is still hopeful for an early audition
for the City Center Opera Company. Father continues to write
incomprehensible notes on his music sheets—and literally walks on air
when it goes well. Other times he just looks black and frustrated,
staring into space as if listening. But his work at the school is fine.
And his quartet is making a name for itself in this oasis we call Aspen.
There! That’s enough about them!

“I can see you look at me in that way you have and say, ‘What about
you?’

“That’s not so easy to answer. Part of me is getting along swimmingly.
Lynne says I have a gift with children! Imagine, I who during those
first days at camp felt like wringing their individual and collective
necks!

“Happy as I am to have that wonderful job, that’s not the important
thing in my life. Mother is blind and so is Father! The great change in
my life—in me, has come since I’ve known Karl! When I first wrote to you
about him, I told you of his looks, his love and knowledge of music, his
almost unnatural devotion to his mother! But our friendship, oh so
necessary to both of us, has deepened, has matured into something quite
wonderful! Please don’t smile. I couldn’t bear it and somehow I know you
won’t or I wouldn’t be writing as I do.

“When I see him, his nearness gives me a joy I can’t explain. We see
each other nearly every day—if not at his Uncle Yahn’s Swiss Shop, then
he drops in here. We never finish all we have to say. I know his
character, his thoughts, his dreams. I weep for all his father has been
through. Remember the prophets of the Old Testament you used to read to
me? I listened with only half an ear. But Karl knows a lot of Jewish
history and I’m learning fast. When Grandma hears of this phenomenon,
she will be glad that all her efforts to fill the huge gap in my
ignorance has at last born fruit. I’m beginning to glimpse what she used
to call ‘our great heritage.’

“But Mother sees little of all this greatness in Karl. She treats him
like any other music student.

“‘How are things going, Karl?’ Then she’s off to the kitchen or
marketing or sometimes, more lately, to rest. Father is more interested,
but he too is preoccupied with his own work. So I have become more
necessary to Karl as he is to me.

“I love him! There, I have written the word. I dream of what he’ll be
some day, how I can help and how I can become that which he seems to see
in me. Will our discovery of each other in Aspen flower into something
as wonderful as the present? Don’t tell me I’m young! Juliet was only
fifteen! Happily for us, there are no Montagues and Capulets with their
senseless feuds to try to keep us apart!

“I know my own feelings, but how can I know that Karl loves me? I do
know he likes me a lot, but even so, there are complications!

“Karl works with a pianist and she’s fiendishly clever! She’s pretty,
very superior, and treats me like a child! She’s old, at least twenty.
For all that, she looks so dainty and petite. And I’m awkward, stupid
and tongue-tied when I’m with her.

“Karl asked me to meet her. I was terribly curious about her and agreed
although I knew in advance I wouldn’t like her. Twice was enough! I’ll
not subject myself again to such humiliation. I asked him why he allowed
her to order him around and make jokes about the most serious things?

“His only answer was, ‘She knows her piano. I don’t. I’m lucky to get
that ribbing. It helps to keep one’s feet on the ground. Besides, she’s
fun to be with!’

“He looked at me in surprise. ‘You used to have a sense of humor, Judy.
What’s become of it? I hoped you’d enjoy Marian as much as I do.’

“I couldn’t tell him I never want to see her again! She stirs up the
ignoble in me. I know, at least I feel, she’s trying to entice Karl,
trying to get him in her clutches, away from me. Probably, she
recognizes the genius he’ll become some day! I try not to think of her
and often I forget her completely, especially when Karl and I are
together, alone.

“Good-bye, Grandpa. Keep well and know I love you. This letter is for
you only. I won’t mail it until I’ve written another for Grandma with
all the concerts, lectures (ugh!), recitals and rehearsals—in short,
with all the news that’s fit to print. O.K.?

                   Lovingly and confidentially yours,
                                                                   Judy”




                                   15
                           THE MOUNTAIN CLIMB


It was the middle of August and the season in Aspen was drawing to a
close. In a little more than two weeks, the students of the Festival
would begin to trickle back, some to college, others to jobs. The
artists and faculty members were already speaking of their fall
engagements to travel all over the United States, Canada, and South
America.

But in the meantime, as if the planners of the Music Festival wished to
end the Festival in a blaze of glory, life in Aspen increased to a
furious tempo. Lectures, recitals, concerts, music in one form or
another filled the days and nights. No one seemed to feel the strain
except Judy. She wondered sometimes, did the nearby mountains ever tire
of this constant paean of music?

One evening Mrs. Lurie casually announced at dinner, “We’re all going
tonight to a lecture at the Seminar Building.” She turned to Judy. “You
remember that attractive ultramodern building near the Tent? You loved
the paintings exhibited there on those circular walls.” She shook her
head meditatively, “Those paintings by American artists were given by
Mr. Paepcke. He’s certainly been very generous.”

“Allen and Lynne are going to pick us up in their car,” her mother went
on cheerfully. “Oh, here they are!”

After the usual greetings, Mrs. Lurie said, “Judy’s coming with us. The
lecture will be over by ten.”

“What’s the lecture about?” Judy asked.

Her mother answered, “‘Modern Trends in Disharmony.’ It should be
wonderful!”

Judy shuddered. She remembered other “wonderful lectures” through which
she had sat bored and rebellious. In that brilliantly lighted hall one
had not even the small luxury of being able to fall asleep!

“They’re playing a wonderful Western at the Isis,” Judy said
desperately.

“A Western!” her mother and Lynne said. “They’re dreadful!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Allen said quite unexpectedly. “Daredevil riding on
magnificent horses, hairbreadth escapes, mountain scenes like our
Rockies—” His eyes flashed. “They’re packed with excitement—loads of
it.”

Judy looked at Allen, then shifted her gaze to her father. In his eyes
too there was more than a glint of interest.

“Come to think of it,” Allen went on, “it’s funny, we haven’t been to a
movie all summer.”

“What’s funny about that?” Lynne asked with marked disappointment at
Allen’s bourgeois taste in films. “Of course, we haven’t been to a
movie, nor have we seen any television. And we certainly haven’t missed
either.” She looked for encouragement to Mr. Lurie as she went on.

“Who wants to see gun-shooting, Hollywood cowboys tearing up and down
mountains when one can enjoy a delightful evening listening to ‘Modern
Trends’!” She smiled at John certain of his unqualified support.

Instead of an answering smile, he cleared his throat and said with a
deprecating air, “I agree with Allen. There’s something to be said for
these Westerns. The sight of horses leaping from crag to crag, men
hurled from saddles, climbing inch by inch over backbreaking trails—” He
laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “It fills me with a nostalgia.”

“But this lecture, John,” Minna said in a quiet, determined voice, “is
by one of the foremost musicologists.”

“One of the greatest,” Lynne added.

Allen placed his large, friendly hands on Judy’s shoulders. “Have a
heart, Lynne. This kid has listened to music and lectures without let-up
for seven long weeks. Sure, it’s been great, but maybe she’d like a
change of diet.”

There was a flurried consultation between Lynne and Minna. Then with a
martyrlike smile, Lynne said, “Allen, dear, since you feel so strongly
about Judy’s state of mind, of course, we’ll go to the Isis.”

Allen brazenly winked at John. Then everyone laughed. Judy was unable to
see the joke. As they walked along the quiet streets, seeing her father
and Allen in such high spirits, she wondered. Had they made all that
fuss on her account or were they satisfying some secret desire of their
own?

The very next day John Lurie announced his decision to climb Maroon Peak
on Sunday. All summer he had been promising himself one good climb. The
movie did it! As Judy phrased it, “The close-up of the mountain trails
whetted his ‘blunted purpose,’” something she had culled from her
favorite play of Shakespeare. Whatever the reason, John Lurie cleared
his calendar and made his plans.

Fran accepted the role of guide, since he knew the trails well. Karl was
invited “to please a certain nameless young lady,” he said. “Oh,
Father!” came ecstatically from Judy at this bit of news. Minna was
invited but refused as she didn’t feel equal to so difficult a climb and
might spoil the day for the others.

The final arrangements were discussed. Extra jackets and sweaters were
to be taken in their knapsacks as the summit was often bitterly cold,
even in summer. Each one was to provide his own sandwiches and a drink
of some kind or water in a canteen and heavy socks and shoes were to be
worn. The agreed to meet at eight o’clock in the morning at the foot of
the trail twelve miles from Aspen. Judy and her father were getting a
lift through the kindness of a neighbor, but Fran cheerfully volunteered
not only to get Karl and himself to the trail, but also to have a car
meet them at seven that night to take them back to Aspen.

The night before the climb Judy lay in bed unable to sleep. A whole day
with Karl ahead of her! She felt like a general mapping out her
strategy. Her father would race ahead with Fran, but she, affecting an
air of languor (lovely thought, she hoped she could bring it off!) would
set a slower pace and Karl, with his usual consideration, would be
beside her. She sighed luxuriously. There would be hours and hours to
talk! And at the summit, resting amid the clouds, they would read
poetry! She had slipped a volume of her grandfather’s poems into the
knapsack, just in case—although she knew a few of them by heart.

As she tossed on her bed, the thought of Marian crossed her mind. Karl
hadn’t mentioned her name in days, yet her pretty face still troubled
Judy. Jealous! Of course not! That was over and done with. “Jealousy was
degrading,” she muttered into the pillow, turning it for the tenth time.
It was good to feel cleansed and serene. But a sweet and consoling
thought lulled her to sleep. The words repeated themselves like a
lullaby: “Marian would soon return to Chicago. Soon, soon—the sooner,
the better!”

“Judy, you’re a fine one to depend on! I thought you’d be up at dawn.”
It was her father, fully dressed, ready for their trip.

They reached the trail long ahead of the scheduled time. During the
half-hour wait the crystal-clear air gave Judy such an appetite that she
consumed a sandwich and was nibbling on a hard boiled egg when her
father rescued what remained of her lunch and replaced it in his
knapsack.

At the sound of a motor Judy jumped up, “Here they are!”

A beautiful, shiny, black convertible roared toward them, swung into the
brush and came to a stop. She stared at it. Every car in Aspen was laden
with weeks of dust. No one they knew ever bothered to clean a car that
would get just as dusty an hour later.

Fran stepped out of the car and walked toward them. His face was
shining, his heavy boots were laced to the knees, and a coil of rope and
knapsack were jauntily slung over his shoulder.

“Where’s Karl?” Judy asked as he came nearer.

“He’s here. Like a real gentleman, he’s helping the lady.”

“The lady?” Judy repeated stupidly, her eyes fixed on the car.

Yes! There she was walking with Karl, a hand on his arm, a dainty figure
in dark blue jeans, a cap to match and a bright red sweater. It couldn’t
be—No!—that was impossible!

They approached slowly. Karl, with a battered old rucksack borrowed from
his uncle, heavy-booted and heavy of tongue, smiled feebly, “I hope you
won’t mind. Marian begged to come along.”

Marian gave Judy a little nod and held out her pretty manicured hand to
Mr. Lurie. “I know I’m just an interloper, but to be in the heart of the
Rockies and not able to boast of one little climb—” She gave Mr. Lurie a
ravishing smile.

“Little climb,” Judy muttered under her breath, but she noticed that her
father looked as pleased as Punch and said, “We’re delighted to have you
come along.”

“That’s sweet of you, Mr. Lurie.” Then as if just remembering Judy’s
existence, she said, “How are you?” And without waiting for an answer
continued, “I bet you’re glad not to be the only girl in the party!”

“Well, let’s get started,” Fran said. “We’ve a novice with us,” he
chuckled. “Marian may look like an ad for the ski patrol, but, brother,
she’s never climbed a mountain except in a car. Well, there always has
to be a first time. Besides, if we hadn’t Marian’s car, we would have
had to hike the twelve miles to get here. The guy who was to take us
found himself with five passengers for Denver. A break for him, but—”

Judy stood in the circle and except for a hollow “Hello, Marian,” had
been too numb to say anything. Her heart was sore with all her useless,
foolish planning. As her grandmother remarked when an irrepressible
neighbor invaded her privacy with stupid visits and more stupid
conversation, “This neighborhood was always so lovely. Now _she_ has to
move next door. There’s always a fly in the ointment!”

Mr. Lurie was laughing at something Marian was saying. He turned to
Fran, “Maybe you’re right about the stylish outfit, but why didn’t you
tell Marian to wear heavy shoes?”

“I did tell her.”

“They both did,” Mirian said with a careless shrug. “But I don’t own a
pair of delightfully sensible cowhide boots such as Judy is sporting.”

Only Judy noticed the subtle sarcasm, “delightfully sensible.” She
looked at her thick socks, the mud-colored boots inherited from her
mother’s climbing era. She clenched her teeth.

“Don’t worry about me,” Marian added lightly. She lifted a trim little
foot. “These sneakers are the best—new and strong. I’ll manage.”

Judy said nothing but silently prayed those sneakers of hers would fall
apart and expose her bleeding toes on the rocks.

They began to climb in single file. The first half hour was easy, a slow
upward grade. Marian’s teasing voice could be heard.

“You call this a climb?”

She talked incessantly until Fran told her brusquely to save her breath.
“You’ll need it,” he warned.

The next three or four hours were hard. Fran leaped ahead like a goat
while Judy and her father, with set faces and their bodies bent forward,
plodded steadily on. Breathing hard and frequently panting, they were
glad of the rest periods Fran ordered at fifteen-minute intervals. The
trail led over rocks and huge boulders, mud ankle deep from hidden
springs. The trees grew more sparse, then disappeared altogether. In
spite of herself, Judy was enjoying the climb, the exertion, the clear,
exhilarating air, the sudden views of deep chasms that fell away a
thousand feet.

Of Karl and Marian they saw nothing after the first hour. Every once in
a while Fran would give his weird call, “Halloo,” and on hearing a faint
answering “Halloo,” would say briefly, “They’re on the trail. O.K. Let’s
keep moving.”

At one-fifteen the three stopped for lunch. They were on a plateau of
smooth rock and before eating, they rested, lying down on the hard
surface to dry their soaked shirts and perspiring bodies, then turned
over on their stomachs, warming their backs in the hot rays of the sun.
In five minutes they were completely refreshed and sat up to eat and
marvel at the view.

Giant peaks cut into the sky, deep forests of black pine were far below,
and in the distance a thread of silver shimmered, a river, perhaps
unknown, uncharted on any map. In a craterlike hollow, barely seen at
first, lay a lake of dazzling color, like a giant emerald, sparkling in
the sun.

Mr. Lurie at last broke the silence. “You know,” he said in a meditative
voice, “it’s hard to explain one’s love for mountain climbing to anyone
who doesn’t share your enthusiasm. Most people see it as a foolhardy,
backbreaking, unnecessary exertion. ‘Knock yourself out! For what?’ they
ask with undisguised condescension, sometimes with a sort of incredulous
contempt. And we lovers of the sport can’t explain.” He flung out his
arms in a sort of ecstasy. “We say it’s the extraordinary view one gets
as a reward for the struggle. No,” Mr. Lurie continued, letting his arms
drop beside him, “you get an incomparable view from Pike’s Peak driving
up in a car or bus. No, it isn’t the view alone.”

“It’s like a dare or a challenge, isn’t it?” Fran said. “You set out to
do what you know is hard and tough. Maybe reach a peak no one ever saw
before. You don’t go out for the pleasure of the kill as a hunter does.
You’re making a new trail of following someone else’s who had dared
before you. And when you’ve done it, boy, you feel good!”

“That’s about it, Fran. You’ve conquered one of the difficulties Nature
constantly presents. You push yourself ahead, beyond endurance
sometimes, but when you reach the summit, you want to shout, ‘Look, I’m
here too! I share your lonely grandeur if only for a moment of time.’”

Then in a more matter-of-fact tone he said to Judy, “I guess you haven’t
climbed enough to feel that way about it, but it’s that spirit in one
form or another that has led to opening up parts of the world that would
otherwise have remained unknown.”

“Oh, I agree with you perfectly, Father, but I was only wondering what
happened to Karl and Marian.”

“Yes, where are they?” Fran said impatiently. “We’ve been here for half
an hour.”

Mr. Lurie looked at his watch. “It’s only one-twenty-five. How long do
you figure, Fran, it will take us to reach North Maroon Peak?”

“At least another hour. We ought to leave now.”

Fran gave his call and after repeating it several times, a faint answer
could be heard. At last, they caught a glimpse of the two figures slowly
toiling upward.

“They’re O.K. Come on, let’s push on,” Fran said, settling his rope and
knapsack on his shoulder.

“I think we ought to wait for them,” Mr. Lurie suggested. “Marian looks
as if she could use a little encouragement.”

Fran grudgingly agreed. “They’re holding up,” he grumbled, still chafing
at the delay. They watched the slow, painful progress of the two
climbers and noticed Karl at times pulling Marian by her hands over the
large, smooth boulders.

At last they reached the plateau. Their faces were drawn, streaked with
dirt and grime. They dropped down wearily and Marian stretched out flat
on her back as if she never expected to rise again. Her eyes were closed
as she groaned, “I ache in every bone, every muscle of my body. It’s
going to be years before I feel human again.”

As for Karl, his weariness soon left him. He rested as the others had
and sat up. Wordlessly, he looked at the magnificent range of peaks
jutting into the sky. Then he murmured something: “What wonders He has
given us this day to behold,” adding the Hebrew words.

“Is that a prayer of thanksgiving?” Judy asked quietly.

Karl nodded.

Fran, always practical, broke in, “Have you eaten yet?”

“No,” Karl said as if awakened from a dream. “I’m glad you reminded me.
I’m hungry as a bear.”

He reached into his rucksack and took out a brown paper bag and a
daintily wrapped box.

“Better have something to eat, Marian,” he said, placing the package
beside her.

“Thanks. I don’t want anything.”

“Look, folks,” Fran said impatiently, “if we’re to make the top and get
down before dark, we have to leave in ten minutes.”

“I’m ready to leave as soon as you say,” Karl answered, “but I can’t
speak for Marian. Look at her right sneaker. The sole has been flapping
for the last hour. It’ll be off entirely any minute.”

They examined the sneaker and even Judy hadn’t the heart to gloat or to
say, “We told you so.”

Marian lifted her head from the stone. “Please, all of you, go ahead
without me. You’ll find me here when you get back. I’ll drink in the
view. In fact, I’ll do anything but climb another foot of this mountain.
Unfortunately, I’ll have to climb down!”

Mr. Lurie laughed. “Marian, you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten and
rested a few minutes longer. You’ll get your second wind.”

“Second wind!” She moved uneasily to a different position. “I used that
up long ago. What I need is a pair of bellows to keep my lungs going, to
say nothing of a relay of fresh, untrodden feet!”

Judy too couldn’t help laughing. She sat down next to Marian and fed her
pieces of orange. She put a sandwich in her hand and coaxed her to take
a bite, then another, until it was finished.

“You’ll be all right, Marian. I have an idea. Father has some string in
his knapsack. Fran can wind it around your sneaker to reinforce it so
that it holds.”

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

“Please,” Marian pleaded, “all of you, go ahead and that includes Karl.
I’ll sleep here peacefully with the birds and beasts—and mountains, and
dream peacefully of a hotel room with a hot, steaming bath!”

“No,” Karl said firmly, “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“It’s a darn shame,” Fran protested. “You’re the one, Karl, who wanted
to see Maroon Peak most of all.” He turned dejectedly to Mr. Lurie.
“What do you say, Professor?”

“I agree with Karl. We can’t leave Marian alone. There’s no actual
danger. We don’t expect any landslide or sudden snow flurry.” He looked
at the unclouded sky. “But,” he paused as he tried to hide his own
disappointment, “maybe we should give up and all of us return together.”

Judy looked heart-broken. “Marian, I know you feel better now. Why don’t
you let Fran fix your sneaker?” she urged. “I know it worked with a girl
who went up Mt. Washington with me! We’ve gone three quarters of the
way. To turn back now is to admit defeat! You’re spoiling everybody’s
fun. Don’t you see!”

“No, I don’t see. But I don’t want to be a spoilsport either.” She
dragged herself to a sitting position.

“Once I played in a golf tournament,” she went on. “At the end of
eighteen holes the score was tied. I’d just gotten over the flu and I
shouldn’t have played at all. I was all beat out but I played another
nine holes before the match was finished. It didn’t kill me. All right,
you win!”

Judy felt a new respect, almost an affection for this girl whom she had
secretly called her “hated rival.”

Fran fixed the offending sneaker and then he announced in his best
“guided-tour voice,” “Let everyone attend to his needs.” And with that
command the boys and Mr. Lurie discreetly retired to a declivity and
were quickly out of sight.

“Where are they going?” Marian asked.

“You know. You heard Fran. This gives us our chance too. I’ve learned on
other mountain trips,” she said as she led Marian down to a deep cleft
among the rocks.




                                   16
                        NEAR TRAGEDY AND RESCUE


The last hour was brutal. Mr. Lurie took the lead with Karl and Judy
close behind. On hands and knees they crawled over boulders until they
secured a foothold. At one spot Judy was left dangling until her father
and Karl inched toward her on their stomachs and pulled her to safety.

Marian’s role was more passive. The coil of rope that Judy had
skeptically regarded as a showpiece for Fran now proved its usefulness.
Tied under Marian’s arms, he hauled her over rocks and boulders she
pluckily attempted but could not scale.

At last they reached the summit. Their salute to the mountain peak was
brief. A sharp wind blew through their wet and clammy sweaters. Jackets
and windbreakers were pulled from knapsacks. They stood awed and
shivering, surrounded by the nearby peaks, silent in the vastness of its
forbidding grandeur. Only the cairns, little heaps of massed stones,
marked the path of retreat to a world of safety. Mr. Lurie put his arm
around Judy and held her close. Fran, as moved as the others,
relentlessly pointed to the slanting rays of the sun.

Ten minutes later, they began the descent. Fran rushed ahead with Karl
and Judy followed him down the dizzying path. It was fun racing down at
almost breakneck speed. The boulders that had defied them and were so
hard to grip on the upward climb were friendly on the descent. They sat
and slid down, the well-padded leather seats of their pants taking the
punishment instead of their young, tough bodies.

Looking back at intervals, they saw Mr. Lurie patiently guiding Marian
down the trail, supporting her as she slid down the slippery boulders.
Still high above them on the trail, they looked unbelievably small
silhouetted against a background of rock and sky.

With high spirits and exuberant bursts of laughter, the three
forerunners reached the plateau they had left only an hour and a half
earlier and were content to rest as they waited for Marian and Mr.
Lurie.

“If you’re game, we can take another trail down,” Fran said. “It’s a
little tough in places, but much shorter. We’ll see what they say when
they get here.”

When Mr. Lurie and Marian approached and were within hailing distance,
Fran called, “Hurry, I want to—”

He got no further. He and his companions eyed Marian with amazement. Her
jeans were torn. Long strips of fabric hung in ribbons and light pink
stuff showed through the rents of the once slick garment. Her cap was
gone and Mr. Lurie’s leather jacket hung loosely on her shoulders. With
her rumpled curls falling limply over her brow, she looked like a
desperate young bandit.

“Well, here I am,” she greeted them, “a thing of rags and patches, minus
the patches.” She flopped down beside them with an anguished “Oh!” as
her knees crumpled under her.

Fran gave her a sad, appraising glance. “I was just saying, there’s
another trail down. We’ll have to slide on some ice, but it’s nothing
much and we can save an hour, maybe more.”

Mr. Lurie shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we better stick to the
same trail even if it’s longer.”

Marian perked up, suddenly alert. “Fran, did you say we can save an
hour? That would get us down by six or seven. Golly, what’s keeping us?
It can’t be worse than what I’ve been through already!”

“No,” Fran said reassuringly, “in many ways it’s easier. Just a slide or
two, nothing to it.”

“Good! I’m ready,” she said, getting up shakily. “The sooner this
ghastly trip is over, the better.” She tenderly felt her mud-spattered,
torn jeans. “If these rents get any worse, I may be very anxious for
night to fall,” she said, still able to smile at herself.

In twenty minutes they reached a gully, crossed it, and came to what
looked like an icefield. At one extremity it sloped precipitously and
beyond it lay a stretch of flat land with scrub.

“From there on,” Fran gestured, “there’s a trail going straight down. I
heard it was once the bed of a river made from centuries of melting snow
from the mountain top. Anyhow, the trail’s pretty dry at this time of
year. Steep all right, but short.”

He picked up a large, sturdy stick that lay discarded among the stones
and walked on the ice, hitting it several times, testing it.

“Couldn’t be better.” He turned and faced his companions. “Each of us
will in turn sit on this ledge of ice, getting as close to the very edge
as we can. Then let yourself go. Slide down the ice. That’s all there is
to it. I’ll go down first. Remember, the main thing is to let yourself
go—easy like. There’s some brush that I’ll grab as I hit the bottom and
break my speed. Then I roll over. But you don’t have to worry about
that. I’ll be there as you come down.”

He threw down the stick, adjusted his rope and knapsack, and sat down on
the ice as if on his own toboggan. Without another word, he slid down
the ice. It was over. Before they knew it, they saw him roll over, pick
himself up, and wave. Mr. Lurie went next, then Karl. There were the
three of them waving and smiling, urging Judy and Marian to follow.

Judy turned to Marian, “You want to go next?”

“No, you go. I want to see how you make out.”

Judy sat down as the others had, closed her eyes to block out the steep
drop. She shot out like an arrow and before she knew it, she felt her
father’s powerful arms grasping her.

She stood up now and waved with the others. “Come on, Marian, it’s
nothing.”

“What’s she waiting for?” grumbled Fran.

Marian stood there, Fran’s discarded stick in her hand, looking like a
statue contemplating the ice.

All yelled together, “Sit down! Slide! Don’t keep standing there!”

She heard them for her answer came clearly. “No, I can’t sit down on
that cake of ice! It’s too cold. I’ll go down standing. I’ve got the
stick.”

“You’re crazy,” Fran shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to make
sure his voice carried. “Sit down! Don’t be an idiot! Sit!”

Before he could shout another warning, she stepped firmly on the icy
slope, took another step—a terrifying shriek tore the air! They saw the
stick fly from her hand. She pitched forward, doubled over, then rolled
down the other side of the precipice.

Judy couldn’t look—was afraid to look. Fran’s practiced eye marked the
direction and he and Mr. Lurie ran to where she fell. Karl and Judy,
panting with fright, followed.

She lay there stunned—or dead. They didn’t know which. They could only
hear their own heavy breathing. Fran was bent over her. Mr. Lurie was on
his knees with Fran. They touched her hands, her face. She opened her
eyes.

“That you, Professor?” She tried to smile but the pain in her badly
bruised face made the smile a grimace. “You see, I got here on my own
after all.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She tried to turn her head.
“I just want to investigate—the damage.”

“Don’t move, Marian!” Mr. Lurie said quickly. His face was pale, his
voice tense. “You may be badly hurt. At first one can’t tell ... shock,
you know—”

“Nothing hurts, except—all of me.” Again, that grimace of a smile.
“Ouch! My ankle!”

Fran looked stern. “You’re mighty lucky! If you’d rolled another hundred
feet—there’s a sheer drop over there.” He shook his head, the picture of
misery. “I’ll never understand why you did it.”

There was no further talk. Mr. Lurie and Fran made a carry out of Fran’s
rope, cutting it and weaving it like a basket. They spread their jackets
over the rope and carried Marian gently to a spot where shrub and a huge
rock gave some shelter from the wind. Her ankle bulged big over the
sneaker, which miraculously held together. Extra sweaters were piled on
Marian, whose teeth were now clattering like castanets.

“I’ve got something to fix her up,” Karl said as he took a large thermos
from his rucksack. “Hot coffee! Uncle Yahn’s idea.”

It was a godsend. Marian sipped it as if it were nectar and immediately
felt warmer. Judy and the others had a few good swallows and nothing
ever tasted half as good.

Mr. Lurie now took command. “Fran, go down the trail. Make as good time
as you can and notify the ski lodge of the accident. They’ll send up
relief. They always do. That’s the unwritten code among mountain
climbers. Judy will go with you. Karl and I will remain with Marian.
After the ski lodge has been notified, try to get Judy home. Her mother
will start to worry. Oh, yes,” he said as an afterthought, “have you the
keys to Marian’s car?”

Fran nodded.

“Good! That will help rounding up volunteers.”

Fran stood irresolute. “I think maybe you should go down the trail with
me, not Judy. We can make better time and you’re the one who can get a
rescue party together.”

“He’s right, Father,” Judy broke in. “Let me stay with Marian and Karl.”

After a moment’s hesitancy, Mr. Lurie agreed that this was the wisest
thing to do. Without another word he took off his sweat shirt and made
Judy put it on. Fran did the same, giving his to Karl. Neither of them
now had any protection against the increasing cold and wind except their
thin cotton shirts.

Judy protested but Mr. Lurie said, “Don’t worry about us. At the speed
we’ll be going, we’ll keep warm enough.”

He stood there for a moment thinking. “It’ll be four or five hours, if
we’re lucky, before anyone can get here. The cold’s going to get worse.
Keep close as you can to each other. Your bodies will provide some heat.
So long, kids. Keep your chins up!”

With that he and Fran were gone.

It was a long vigil. Judy and Karl sat huddled together close to Marian.
Darkness fell quickly. They tried to pass the hours talking of school,
their plans for the future. They sang snatches of songs and discovered
to their surprise they dozed off while they thought they were still
singing, only to wake, cramped and stiff with the cold.

They had no watch by which to measure the passing hours, but when the
moon lighted up the dismal, fearsome darkness, they cheered! They knew
how much the moonlight could ease it for those who, guided only by
lantern, must make the steep, hazardous climb to reach them!

In one of the quiet lulls between sleep and wakefulness, Judy, no longer
able to bear the increasing pangs of hunger as well as the weight of
silence said, “I know a poem. It’s called ‘The Trail’ and it’s symbolic
too. My grandfather wrote it for my grandmother.”

“Good,” Marian drawled from under her heap of jackets. “We’re the
helpless victims. We’ll listen.”

“I’m not sure I remember it exactly—”

“So you’ll skip a few lines. We won’t know the difference.”

“Want to hear it, Karl?” Judy asked, suddenly feeling shy.

“Of course I do.”

“You know,” Judy said half defensively, “my grandparents climbed
mountains all their lives, even went up Mt. Rainier.”

“Never mind the build-up. Just begin,” Marian ordered, like a stage
manager.

Judy cleared her throat.

  The rocky trail
    Steep-periled cliffs and far below
  The deep ravine where mountain torrents flow.
    Stay for a moment on this extended ledge.
  Look back the way we’ve come.
    Far, far below the starting of The Trail
  The distant lakes that lie like mirrors
    To the Heavens.
  The hush of silence, the stillness of the scene,
    The circling hawk, the woods, the valleyed hills
  A panorama of the world. One seems enchanted in a land of dreams
    Come, come away. I ask no better trail than this;
  Thy voice, thy love, thy hand in mind, thy kiss.

“It’s beautiful,” Karl whispered. “Do you think I’ll ever meet your
grandfather?”

“Yes. He knows all about you.”

“But he left out a lot of things a realist like myself would have
included,” Marian said with a sigh. “That’s the trouble with being a
poet. What would rhyme with broken ankles or shredded pants!”

“I suppose,” Marian went on, as she cautiously tried to change her
position, “you’ve sharpened a carload of pencils to carry on and maybe
even snatch the mantle from your grandfather!”

Embarrassed, Judy muttered, “I’ve never been able to write even a
jingle!”

She impulsively put her hand on Marian’s. “I know how you must feel, all
that pain and probably starving too. Why don’t you lay your head on my
lap—you tell her, Karl! That rock must be cutting ridges in her scalp!”

Marian took the proffered hand. “Why stop at the scalp?” she said
lightly. “I’m certain it’s penetrated deep below the bony structure. I
wouldn’t be at all surprised if the brain was in danger! At least it
certainly feels addled. No thanks, Judy dear, I’ll stay as I am.
Besides, one pain offsets another. I didn’t know I was hungry until you
mentioned it.”

It was the first time Marian had displayed any affection for Judy. There
was a significant pause. Then Marian went on.

“I have to get something off my chest. For weeks I thought of you as an
insufferable brat and,” she went on quickly before Judy could interrupt,
“I know what you thought of me—a vampire trying to ensnare Karl! Don’t
deny it! You gave yourself away more than once,” she gloated happily.

“Stop talking such rot!” Karl said, bristling with suppressed anger.
“Between the two of you—”

But Marian went on serenely. “Now I take it all back. I like you, Judy,
and I hope you like me.”

“Marian, you’re just the most,” Judy gulped. “I guess I was—I don’t
know—maybe I didn’t take the trouble to understand you. I was awful,”
she said, on the verge of tears.

“As for Karl,” Marian continued in a voice as if she had already joined
the heavenly choir—“I have a Karl of my own. His name happens to be
Charles, which is close enough. He’s very sweet—too much money for his
own good—too much of a playboy—but very sweet,” she repeated sleepily.
“And now I think I’ll take a little nap.” With that she closed her eyes.

When the rescue party arrived, they found the three fast asleep, fallen
on each other, in a state of complete exhaustion. Awakened, they were
given hot drinks and food. Marian was lifted onto a stretcher and
covered with blankets. There were sweaters and coats for Judy and Karl,
and friendly hands helped them down the mountain. By midnight they
reached the foot of the trail. An ambulance waited there and in less
than an hour Marian was in Pitkin County Hospital. Her mother and the
impeccably dressed Charles flew in from Chicago the next day to visit
the invalid. They found her holding court with two Appalachian mountain
climbers, visitors in Aspen, a reporter from the _Aspen Times_, a
photographer, and others.

For two issues the _Aspen Times_ featured the story as “Dramatic
Adventure Up Maroon Peak.” Marian, looking very chic in her elegant
lounging robe, was photographed with her broken ankle, chipped knee,
lacerations, and bruises under the caption, “Lucky Girl.” Fran, Karl,
Mr. Lurie, and Judy also came in for their share of glory.

But the real heroes, the _Aspen Times_ noted in its editorial, were the
six volunteers who reacted immediately to the plight of those on the
mountain.

“... there are no tangible rewards. No law requires them to undergo the
physical hardship and possible danger to aid the injured girl.

“We are proud of the men who answer to an unwritten code, always present
in the mountains, to go to the aid of his fellow man when in danger. The
men who participated in the rescue are the real heroes and merit the
gratitude of all.”

None subscribed more feelingly to this sentiment than did the little
band of five who were the principals in this adventure on Maroon
Mountain.




                                   17
                         CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON


A letter from home! That was what Mrs. Lurie still called the much
prized letters from her mother that arrived at regular intervals all
through the summer. Minna herself was an indifferent correspondent and
John occasionally scrawled a few lines with a program enclosed of past
or coming events.

Yet the grandmother’s letters never held any reproach for the long
silences. She related family events with gusto, the small or large
happenings of her own household ... the guest who came for a week end
and stayed the week. Frequently Minna was concerned, often annoyed.

“Mother’s incurably hospitable! It’s a shame, she never gets any rest—”

Mrs. Lurie seemed to have forgotten those years when she, her brothers
and sisters filled the house with their guests. She never wondered then
how her parents bore up under the strain. A feast or a snack, long past
midnight, radio blaring, the rug turned back for dancing, late
breakfasts and untidy bedrooms, bathing suits drying on antique chairs,
dates and parties—and the tired voice, “Everyone in? Thank goodness. Try
to keep quiet—Your father needs his rest.”

“Incurably hospitable!” Minna repeated, while John patiently waited to
hear the letter so recently arrived and cause of his wife’s outburst.

“Listen to this, John! ‘I finally succeeded in getting Sam Sterling and
Jennie Coleman to come down together for a week end. You remember
Jennie? She’s been a widow for eight years, but is still hopefully
looking over the field. I don’t blame her—she’s lonely.

“‘Sam is as charming as always. He’s still unmarried and lives alone
since his sister died. Need I say more? I still believe propinquity is
the best matchmaker.

“‘Shortly after dinner, when we were about to sit down to a game of
canasta, Jennie whispered to me, “I can’t find my bridge!”

“‘“Your what?” I asked.

“‘“My denture. I couldn’t stand the pressure—that steak, I guess.”

“‘What a night! We were too embarrassed to tell Sam and C.B. why we
ransacked the house. Along about midnight, I thought of the garbage!
Jennie and I lifted that five-foot can, dragged it down the cellar steps
and emptied its contents on the cement floor. There we found it, neatly
wrapped in her monogrammed handkerchief, safe and snug among the coffee
grounds and tea bags!’”

John was laughing. “Only your mother would think of the garbage!”

“Honestly, John, I don’t see how Father puts up with Mother’s passion
for doing good! Think of all those remote cousins, aunts, and uncles,
content and accustomed to family indifference, suddenly recalled from
oblivion—and the inevitable letter, inviting them to leave the hot city,
come down for a week end—”

Minna smiled in spite of her serious misgivings. “But these people must
bore Father and her too. She abuses her health. Father ought to put his
foot down!”

John merely shook his head. “Your father adores your mother. He thinks
these successive waves of self-torture are an endearing weakness and so
plays along. It’s a gift—to be so selfless, doing kind and gracious
things—actually enjoying doing them.”

When for ten days after the climb up Maroon Peak there was still no
letter from “home,” Mrs. Lurie became anxious and put in a long distance
call. Her mother tried to sound cheerful but Minna could detect her
anxiety. “Father didn’t wish me to write that he was ill.... He’s doing
nicely.... Yes, he’d love to see you, but he wouldn’t want you to leave
until the Season is over.”

That night the Luries had a conference and made a quick decision. Mrs.
Lurie and Judy would leave Aspen as soon as they could get plane
reservations for New York. Mr. Lurie, because of his commitments, must
wait until the official closing of the Music Festival, then he would
follow by train with most of their luggage.

Little Percent Taxi, which had blossomed into a travel bureau, secured
the necessary plane tickets from Denver to New York. In two days Minna
and Judy would leave, travel over the famous Independence Pass to
Denver, conveyed there by a Little Percent Taxi. “The charges for the
ride,” John cynically observed, “were far from little.”

Minna began to pack. There were frequent interruptions, last-minute
interviews, and conferences about the coveted appearance in New York.

Judy too had things to do—her farewell appearance at camp—the library
book to be returned and, with the dollar deposit, purchase the gift for
little Willie. She paid a hurried visit to Uncle Yahn with the hope of
seeing Karl. It was an almost unbearable disappointment that Karl was
nowhere in sight and she had to be content with his uncle’s easy
assurance that he would give him her message.

The morning before their departure, Judy and her mother were in the
kitchen packing the remaining utensils.

“This pressure cooker weighs a ton, Mother. Why do you always take it
with you?”

“I wouldn’t know how to keep house without it, so don’t drop it,” her
mother answered, looking up from her own labors. Her eyes rested on her
daughter.

“Goodness, I’ll have to get you some new bras as soon as we get home.
You’ve developed a bosom in these two months!”

Judy was flattered by this reference to her budding curves, but she
looked at her mother, “Is my body the only thing that has developed?”
she asked hopefully. “There is such a thing as mind as well as matter.”

Mrs. Lurie tried to repress a smile. “You’ve developed in other ways,
matured. Perhaps it was the regular duties at camp and its
responsibilities.” She looked thoughtfully at her daughter. “Anyhow,
whatever the reason,” she said with unwonted tenderness, “it was good to
have you with us this summer. And when I was ill—I don’t know how we’d
have managed without you.”

Mrs. Lurie was undemonstrative. She knew herself to be reserved almost
to a fault, and she secretly envied the mothers who could display their
affection. She now added a little self-consciously, “I hope, Judy, that
you liked being with us as much as Father and I loved having you. It’s
been our first summer together in years.”

“Yes, it was nice, Mother, much nicer than I expected.” Her mother
looked disappointed. Her eyes seemed to say, “Is that all?”

“Let’s sit down and rest for a little while?” Mrs. Lurie suggested. Judy
pulled up a stool while her mother sank into a chair.

“Then you are glad you came with us?” her mother asked again.

“Of course,” Judy answered quickly, thankful for the interlude in the
drudgery of packing and the chance for a talk with her mother. “It was
fun,” she went on, her arms hugging her knees, “to be included in
everything, or nearly everything you and Father did. I love Aspen and
things here are exciting. You just breathe and music seeps in, like some
pleasant, contagious disease! I think I’ll go back to my piano—” There
was an imperceptible pause. “Now especially, that—”

“I’m so delighted,” her mother broke in, too pleased at this admission
to notice her daughter’s emphasis on the “Now especially,” or the
revealing smile that accompanied it.

“Father will be as happy as I am—Go on, dear.”

“What more can I tell you? It was because of you and Father that I came
to know Lynne and Allen and I love them dearly. They’ve been so
wonderful to me. But, Mother,” she paused and said shyly, “don’t you
think that—er—er—Karl had something to do with my maturing, as you call
it?”

“Karl?” Her mother raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It was very
pleasant to have him around.” Noticing her daughter’s reproachful
glance, she went on briskly, “He’s a fine boy, hard-working and very
talented.”

Judy nodded vigorously, her eyes glowing with pleasure.

“Yes, he’s wonderful, isn’t he? If only you knew him as well as I do!
But surely there’s something unusual ... something special you must have
noticed—”

“Unusual?” Mrs. Lurie who rarely smoked, lighted a cigarette to gain
time before replying. Her face clouded as though she resented Karl’s
being introduced into a conversation that concerned only themselves.

“Yes,” she said at last in a quiet, judicious voice, “remarkably
dependable. I think you can feel proud, considering how young you are,
that Karl has chosen to make you his friend.”

Judy’s face darkened. She resented the calm, dispassionate voice of her
mother, her ignorant appraisal of how much Karl meant to her.

She answered heatedly, “Friend! Suppose I was to tell you that I love
Karl!”

Minna put down her cigarette. “You’ll be in and out of what you call
love a dozen times before you’re much older,” she spoke calmly, but was
now thoroughly roused. “What can you know about love or speak of love at
your age?” she added more sharply.

“Why not?” Judy asked bristling. “Grandpa was in love with Grandma when
he was eighteen and she was only fifteen and they’ve been happy all
their—”

“Things were different in those days,” her mother interrupted. “Women
had no careers or rarely did. Because your grandmother married so young,
she never went beyond her freshman year at college. You certainly want
to go to college!”

“Did I ever say I wasn’t going to college? I intend to go, although I’ve
heard you say dozens of times that Grandma is better read and better
informed than most college graduates you knew. And what about Abe
Lincoln?” she hurried on. “What schooling did he have and everyone knows
that his speeches are considered—”

“Look, Judy, what are we arguing about?” Mrs. Lurie said wearily. “I’m
only saying that you are too young to think of Karl or anyone else
seriously. You’re only fifteen!”

“I’m practically sixteen—or will be in a few months.”

“Come, dear, let’s forget the argument. How about a cup of tea?” Mrs.
Lurie said, anxious to restore the good feeling between them.

Judy glumly assented. Mrs. Lurie went to the stove and put on the
kettle. “I guess people will be coming in droves tonight,” she said
pleasantly. “Oh!” she interrupted herself, “I just remembered. Karl
phoned last night when you were at the drugstore. I completely forgot to
tell you.”

Judy muttered to herself, “Forgot to tell me and I was unable to sleep a
wink last night, worrying.”

“Did he leave any message?” she asked tensely.

“Yes, he did. I think I remember his exact words.” Unconsciously Mrs.
Lurie mimicked the halting words of the boy. “There will be a moon
tomorrow night. I’d like to take Judy for a walk so that we can say
good-bye to Aspen together.” She laughed good-naturedly. “It was so
deliciously young!”

With an angry cry the girl faced her mother, “You’re heartless! What’s
more, you haven’t a shred of feeling—no soul!”

Minna felt outraged. She turned her puzzled gaze upon her daughter.
“What did I say to bring that on?” Her lips tightened. “Since you get so
wrought up about trifles, so emotional over nothing, I think it will be
just as well if you said good-bye to Karl right at home. After all, the
moon will be just as visible from our porch.”

“You mean to say that I can’t go out with Karl tonight? Our last night
together!”

“That’s exactly what I do mean.”

“I intend to go and you can’t stop me!” Judy’s face was flushed, the
tears falling unheeded. She rushed from the room, “I hate your
dominating ways!”

Mrs. Lurie’s anguished eyes followed her daughter. “No, she couldn’t
mean that—she couldn’t—what’s become of the little girl I adore so?” she
asked herself miserably as she paced the floor. “She looks upon me as an
enemy! Until a year ago she was so easily managed! So content with her
grandparents—It wasn’t our tours! They’re never long. Besides, I’m
entitled to live my own life,” she told herself defensively. “I have my
career!” She sat down dejectedly, her head in her hands. “It is my
fault. I haven’t tried enough. I must find a way to reach her—but I must
protect her against her foolish, extravagant ideas of romance—” She went
back to the stove, mechanically turned out the light, stood there
staring bleakly into the empty cups.

Tempers cannot remain at fever pitch all day. Judy was sorry, ashamed of
her outburst. If her mother had only understood how much Karl meant to
her! To forbid a last walk together—she would appeal to her father. No,
that was useless. She knew her parents always supported each
other—family discipline!

Mrs. Lurie too had second thoughts. Why had she been so stern, so
unfeeling? Could one experience love at fifteen? or sixteen? If she had
met John at that age, would she have felt as Judy did about Karl? These
thoughts harassed her all day whenever she paused in her work.

That evening Karl came dressed in his city clothes. Judy watched him as
he talked with her father. He’s so handsome! She watched his face light
up with a smile, then become serious. The ill-fitting suit couldn’t hide
his strong, broad shoulders. Clothes don’t make the man!

Her father beckoned to her. As she joined them, he said, “Karl has some
very exciting news—”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell Judy myself,” Karl gently
interrupted. “We’re going for a walk—”

“I’m not so sure about the walk,” Judy said uncertainly.

At her father’s look of surprise, she said with an attempt at lightness,
“According to Mother, I’m supposed to be doing penance tonight. I’m not
to move off the porch while Karl gives me a lecture on astronomy.”

Her father smiled. “Sounds pretty dull. Doing penance for what?”

“Something I said. I was furious about—never mind!” She glanced at Karl,
not wishing to go on.

“Let’s go over to speak to Mother. There she is next to the punch bowl.”
He piloted them to where Minna was serving refreshments.

“Minna,” he began, as he drew his wife to the comer where Judy and Karl
waited, “I understand you’ve forbidden the time-honored custom of two
youngsters taking a walk by moonlight.” He smiled, “Any crimes committed
of which I am ignorant?”

“No crimes, unless impertinence, defiance—” She stopped and looked at
her daughter’s eyes, pleading. Was Judy solely to blame for the scene?
As her mother, wasn’t she being a little ridiculous? The girl had asked
for sympathy and understanding and all she had given her was logic and
cold reasoning! The wisdom and tenderness of her own parents during her
adolescence flashed through her mind. Why wasn’t she like them? Instead
she was following the pattern of Grandmother Fannie, Judy’s
great-grandmother! She recognized herself with a start—she had always
admired the grim strength of that remarkable old lady and yet with what
delight she had heard her mother tell how she had been brought to terms!

“What was it you asked me, John?” Minna asked, recalled to the present.

“The youngsters want to take a walk. Any valid objection?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said lamely.

She turned to her daughter. “I guess I was just putting myself in your
great-grandmother’s shoes. She had very definite ideas about—life.
Sometime I’ll tell you about her. But,” she added with a smile, “I don’t
measure up to her, nor do I really wish to.”

Judy looked at her mother. “Thanks awfully. You know I didn’t mean any
of—”

“I know, dear,” her mother spoke gently. She turned to Karl. “Only don’t
stay out late. Remember, we leave very early tomorrow morning.”




                                   18
                        A DREAM IS CRYSTALLIZED


“Cute, aren’t they?” The woman smiled indulgently at the man standing
beside her, as she watched Judy and Karl make their way through the maze
of guests.

The man nodded. “I’ve seen them together many times—those who’ve
forgotten call it ‘puppy love.’ It’s a beautiful time! Wedekind calls it
‘Spring’s Awakening.’” The man looked thoughtful. “It can be desperately
serious too. I’ve never forgotten my first—”

The boy and girl couldn’t help hearing the whispered words and tried to
look as if they hadn’t heard.

They stood on the porch a moment. The sky was heavy with stars
brightened by the crescent moon. It was so wonderful to be together away
from the prying eyes of others. They walked arm in arm down the silent
street, absorbed in their thoughts.

Judy wondered about her mother; her recent turnabout, her surrender. We
love each other. Why do we hurt each other so often? She glanced at
Karl. His face was serious. Had it anything to do with the news he
wished to tell her?

When they reached the Chairlift, Karl’s face brightened. “Let’s sit
here. This is where we ate our first sandwich together.” He smiled.
“Remember?”

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

They sat close, their arms and hands interlocked.

“It’s too bad you have to leave so soon—”

“I know. I just hope Grandfather’s illness isn’t serious. It frightens
me!”

“It can’t be so bad, otherwise your grandmother would have telegraphed.”

“I guess you’re right. He was never sick a day until that attack four
years ago. A walk with him or a talk was an adventure.” She stopped,
embarrassed. “You must be tired hearing me speak of him so much.”

“You know very well that isn’t so. Actually since I’ve known you and
have heard you talk about grandparents, aunts and cousins, I’ve had a
longing to be part of a big, interesting family.”

Judy nodded. “It is fun when the clan gets together. Grandmother’s house
can expand like an accordion. My cousins and I usually beg to sleep
overnight. Couches miraculously open into double beds, cots are hauled
from the attic. It’s bedlam, really, but we love it. On Thanksgiving Day
two turkeys are necessary to feed the hungry mob. The Seder, the
Passover Feast, is unforgettable—dignified and joyous. The story of the
Passover, the Exodus from Egypt is especially interesting today—the
songs are fun and such food—until you could burst!” She smiled at Karl.

“You’ve been to a Seder, haven’t you?”

“Not for a long time. Not since—My mother is sad at such times.”

“Next year you and your mother will come to us,” Judy said with warmth.
“We’d love it. After all, a table that seats twenty-five can just as
easily have two more.”

After a moment she said, “A big family’s pretty wonderful but when you
come down to it, it’s your own parents that matter. You have to live
with them!” She smiled, “and they with us! I’ve discovered in the last
year or two that parents don’t understand their children, at least in
the growing-up stage. I’m not speaking just for myself. Girls at school
have talked to me and they admit there’s a sort of undeclared war
between them and their parents.”

“What do kids that age have to complain about? I think you exaggerate.
Small tensions exist everywhere. Parents are only human.”

“I don’t exaggerate, Karl. Believe me, there’s always something to argue
about! If it isn’t clothes, and their taste is awful, then it’s money!
You’re either a spendthrift or a miser. If you happen to hate math, they
think you should make a special effort and deliver A grades. Your
reading is either childish or far beyond your years. They disapprove of
your best friend and look aghast when at the age of fourteen you wish to
go to a party to which boys are invited!” Judy shook her head solemnly.
“I tell you, either they interfere and make your life miserable or
ignore you altogether!”

Karl laughed. “You can’t be serious. Your father is terrific and so is
your mother. You don’t know how lucky you are to have such parents.”

“Yes, I do,” Judy said, on the defensive at once. “I love them. I’m
proud of them, but I don’t understand them. I used to think that Father
was always making fun of me. But now I’m beginning to enjoy his brand of
humor. This summer at Aspen has really made a big difference. He and I
are pals. But Mother is different. It could be funny if it weren’t so
irritating. She treats me like a subject in one of those child-study
books she used to read.” Judy shook her head. “She hasn’t the faintest
idea what goes on in my head, or of my feelings. At least so it appears
sometimes—”

For the first time Karl looked sympathetic. “I guess that’s true of all
mothers. I’m in that sort of jam myself.”

“You?” Judy said incredulously. “You’ve said your mother lives only for
you!”

“Yes, that’s just the trouble,” Karl said gloomily. “It all started
since Mr. Werther came into our lives. That’s what I wanted to talk to
you about. Your father knows, from what Uncle Yahn told him the night we
were at your house and what I’ve told him since.”

“I remember overhearing some things your uncle said—and that your mother
met Mr. Werther through some—”

Karl nodded. “Mr. Werther calls it fate ... my mother, the hand of God.”

“Tell me the rest,” Judy urged.

“Mr. Werther asked many questions about me. Need I tell you that she
plunged into the subject with enthusiasm! She showed him my photograph,
the prizes I had won—” He shrugged his shoulders. “In short, she gave it
as her unbiased opinion that I was a budding genius! Being pressed for
more details, she admitted we were poor and with few friends.”

Karl went on. “Mr. Werther is rich. He’s married, but has no family.
Music is still his passion and is bound up in his love and remembrance
of my father. He offered almost at once to become my patron. You know
what that means, Judy?”

“I guess so. A sort of benefactor?”

“Well, yes, a patron is a lover of arts who has money and wishes to
encourage some struggling musician or artist. It’s not a new idea. In
medieval times it was the Church that commissioned paintings, allowed
the artist to flourish. Sometimes it was the government or a nobleman
who provided this encouragement. Today Foundations do the same.

“Anyhow,” Karl went on. “Mr. Werther became fired with this idea. My
mother was quite carried away by his generosity. Both agreed I should be
consulted. My mother wrote all this in her letters. She was careful to
add that after all the offer was made on impulse. He wished to speak to
his wife and that we must not count on it too much. I was interested but
I gave it little serious thought. It was something for the distant
future, if at all.”

Judy’s face was downcast. Karl asked, “Do you really want to hear all
this?”

“Of course. Please don’t stop every minute.”

Thus prodded, Karl continued. “Last week Mr. Werther came again, this
time with his wife. He had made all the necessary inquiries and had a
definite program. He goes to Europe every year on business. Next year,
after I graduate in June, he expects me to go with him. No more talk of
consulting me. The plan is ready. I go to Europe, study in Paris and so
on—”

“And does your mother now object?” Judy asked, suddenly hopeful of an
unexpected ally.

“Far from it! Judging from her letters, the sooner, the better!”

Judy’s face was now as gloomy as Karl’s.

Fumbling for words, Karl tried to explain this change in his mother.
Loyal as he was, he could not conceal his resentment. “She doesn’t care
that I’m to be uprooted again or separated from those I care so much
about—” He looked yearningly at Judy. “It’s only my career that matters
to her now!”

“But wasn’t that always uppermost with her?” Judy asked, trying to be
fair.

“Not the way it is now. Happiness was a goal as well as one’s ambition.
We worked hard but we both loved what we were doing—for each other.
She’s changed, I tell you. She’s possessed by this—glitter of my
success.” He sat there thinking.

“When I wrote to her about the wonderful friends I made in Aspen, your
parents, you, Fran and Marian, she wrote with such happiness, grateful
that I had such warm friends. But after Mr. Werther came with his golden
promises, her letters became enigmas. New words, new
phrases—‘single-mindedness of purpose, friends must not be allowed to
take time from hours needed for study or practice,’ a whole philosophy
on how to become the great and successful musician!”

Judy’s heart ached for Karl. With amazing intuition she understood that
his anger was less directed at his mother than at himself and the choice
he must make.

“I don’t want to be pushed,” he said finally. “I have my own ideas.
Maybe I could get a scholarship and go on as I have, take my chances. I
admit that at first I thought it a pleasant thing to have Mr. Werther
obligingly in the wings, like a good fairy, until I gave the signal. Now
it is he and my mother who give the signals.”

Judy felt crushed. Her beautiful dream of love and romance was
disintegrating into thin air. How could she combat the forces against
her? Karl’s mother, her own, Mr. Werther—and Karl? Was he so sure of
himself? Wasn’t he glad at first? What really mattered was Karl’s
future! It was hard to look at the question objectively, as if it were
someone else, not one about whom she cared.

Karl took a letter from his pocket. “Maybe I haven’t done justice to my
mother or her reasons,” he said, with a tinge of self-reproach in his
voice. “She’d gladly keep on working all her life. It’s only my good she
wishes.

“This came yesterday. Will you hold this flashlight so I can see.” He
turned the pages. “I’ll read part of it to you.

“‘... Karl, my son, there are hundreds of talented boys who may or may
not be as gifted as you. Everyone cannot get scholarships. There just
aren’t enough. To be able to study with the best teachers, to do this
without worries about money or part-time jobs—the freedom from such
responsibilities often makes the difference between a mediocre player
and a great one. And later one must be heard. Where is the money to come
from in order to play before the right audiences? Write to Mr. Werther
that you accept his generous offer.

“‘Put away your childish thoughts. Running up and down mountains!
Friends are not so important. That can come later when you have the time
for it.

“‘The few years ahead may be lonely, for me certainly, but I do not
hesitate, nor must you—’”

Judy’s hand shook as she held the light. “Your mother is brave!” she
said feelingly, for the first time forgetful of her own unhappiness.

Karl folded the letter, put the flashlight back in his pocket.

“I must write to Mr. Werther. But what? He’s waiting to hear from me. He
doesn’t know me. He’s never heard me play. Suppose I don’t live up to
his expectations—and all that money wasted!” He touched Judy’s hair, no
longer the thick pony tail, but hanging soft and luxuriant on her neck.

“Here I am bothering you with my troubles and uncertainties.” He shook
his head. “Although you’re a kid as years go, you’ve lived all your life
with musicians. You must have heard some of their problems discussed.
Tell me, how does all this strike you?”

“I’m thinking, thinking hard, Karl.” She stared in front of her. She
must be honest. Suppose this chance had come to another boy, not to
Karl, not to the boy she loved. What would she say? She was remembering
her mother and father speaking. Why had this friend not taken the
position in the orchestra he had wanted so much? Was it because he
didn’t feel good enough? No, it was money! He just couldn’t afford to
wait the six months or more before the position came through. His family
needed money. He took a job with a musical show instead.

“These men,” her father had said, “never get back to the playing they’ve
been trained for and really love.”

But Karl with Mr. Werther’s help can get to the top! She pressed her
hands together as if seeking some inner strength. “It’s a wonderful
opportunity, Karl!” She was surprised at her voice, its fire and
enthusiasm. “You shouldn’t hesitate. Such a chance may never come
again!”

The flame in her eyes kindled his. “That’s what your father said to me
tonight.”

He took her hands in his, pressing them until they hurt. “I feel as if a
stone has been lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t know how much I wanted
you to say just that.”

“And you’ll leave in June?” Her voice was small. Her heart, now that it
had spoken, felt like lead.

And Karl, in his unexpected feeling of relief, noticed nothing of the
effort it had cost Judy to speak so honestly. “We have months before
us—fall, winter, spring! And after I leave, long letters to and from
each other across the ocean. This is not the end for us, Judy, only the
beginning of something wonderful—”

Judy shivered. Karl took off his coat and placed it on her shoulders.
His arm tightened, holding her close to him.

“Autumn comes early in the mountains.”

His head was close to hers. “I can’t put into words what you’ve meant to
me. I’ve found the sweetest, the most wonderful girl in the world.
You’ll wait for me, Judy—You must! You’ll be going to college—” Their
lips met.

A burst of harsh laughter made them draw hastily apart. Two boys, not
much older than Karl, came from their hiding place and stood before them
jeering.

“You call that a kiss? Need any help? Give her a good squeeze—that’s
what the kid’s asking for!” They laughed uproariously. There were more
jests, unpleasant—the boys came closer.

Judy tried to hide her face on Karl’s shoulder but he got up and
advanced toward them.

“Beat it,” he said sternly, “and be quick about it.”

“Look, Romeo’s looking for a fight!”

“Aw, come on,” the other said, “let’s leave the smoochers alone!”

They ambled off, looking back every few steps to laugh, to whistle,
until they were out of sight.

“Thank heaven, they’re gone,” Judy whispered. “I was frightened.”

“The movies must be over,” Karl said absently, as he sat down and put
his arm protectingly around Judy. “Last year, I went with Uncle Yahn to
Hanover, to help him on some business matter. Late in the afternoon we
went to a movie. The place was crowded with college students. At every
love scene there were catcalls—they pelted the screen with peanuts. I
couldn’t understand why they did it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Nor do
I understand them,” and he motioned to the two figures disappearing down
the street.

“Don’t think about them,” Judy whispered. She wanted to hear again the
words so lovingly spoken, words so full of promise for their future. But
the tender mood was gone. Karl stood up.

“Come, Judy, it’s time for us to go.”

They walked back slowly, their bodies pressed close, wishing they could
walk on and on. They forgot the inevitable separation, the drive and
ambition of the most devoted of mothers. A sweetness enveloped them, a
confidence in their future they could neither understand nor explain.

Karl stood before Judy’s home as if he couldn’t bear to break away.
“I’ll telephone to you as soon as I return to New York.”

“Mother and I will be staying at my grandparents’ for a week, maybe two.
I gave you their address and telephone number, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” He stood there awkwardly. “Good-bye, Judy. Say good-bye to your
mother for me. I’ll see your father every day, I guess. Good-bye again—”
He bent down and kissed her on the mouth, holding her tight. Without
another word he rushed down the path.

As in a trance, Judy walked into the house. The guests were gone. Only
the hall was lighted. She climbed the stairs to her room.

“Is that you, Judy?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I was just beginning to worry what was keeping you so late.” Her mother
spoke evenly but Judy could detect the annoyance in her voice.

“Get to sleep quickly, dear.”

Judy lay huddled on her bed, her clothes negligently tossed on a chair.
She murmured to herself, “He loves me—thank Heaven, he loves me—” She
closed her eyes to live over again this last wonderful hour.

Between half-consciousness and sleep, she saw Karl bowing before a great
audience in Carnegie Hall, a Stradivarius under his arm. She, looking
beautiful and elegantly dressed, sat in a stage box. As the wife of the
newly acclaimed artist—her lips trembled, overcome with joy.

A hand lightly touched her forehead. “Feel all right?” It was her
mother. “I got up to get a blanket and saw the light on in your room—”

                      [Illustration: uncaptioned]

“Forgot, I guess,” Judy’s eyelids flickered for a second. She turned on
her side to continue dreaming.

Mrs. Lurie, sighed, shook her head, and turned off the light.




                                   19
                           FAREWELL TO ASPEN


Pale and apathetic, Judy waited on the porch for the Little Percent to
take them to Denver. It was cold. A mist hung over the valley. The
elation of the previous night was gone. Through the open door she could
hear her parents talking. What can she know of life ... hardship ...
disappointments ... give her stability, direction—They mean me, she
thought bitterly. Then her father’s comforting words about Grandfather—

The car swung briskly before the house. Fran jumped out, picked up the
suitcases from the porch, and hurriedly whispered to Judy as he passed,
“Sit up front with me. You don’t want to sit with them,” indicating with
a nod the other passengers in the car.

While Fran stowed away the luggage, the Luries stood at the curb. John
kissed his wife and helped her into the car. Judy still gazed at the
mountains, overhung with low clouds. She sighed heavily. She felt her
father’s hand. He started to say something about Karl. Instead he took
her in his arms. “Clouds have a way of disappearing,” he said gently,
“just as yours will.” He wanted to see her smile. “You’ll soon get a
glimpse of the two characters on the back seat. They’re smothered in
robes and scarves all set for a polar expedition.” He chuckled. “The
ladies may be young and beautiful, but who can tell?” Judy returned his
smile.

Mrs. Lurie was already seated with the two characters—caricatures would
more aptly describe them, Judy thought. Yet they looked vaguely
familiar.

“Would it be all right, Mother, if I sat up front with Fran? This little
straight-back seat doesn’t look too—”

“Of course, dear. You’ll be more comfortable.”

The car rushed forward in a cloud of dust with Mr. Lurie’s voice
trailing it, “Don’t forget to send me the wire when your plane reaches
New York.”

Aspen was soon left behind. From the back seat came a continuous stream
of talk. Whenever her mother addressed her, Judy turned with a dull,
indifferent glance. It was during one of these fleeting moments that
Mrs. Lurie attempted an introduction to their fellow passengers. “This
is Miss Simms and Miss Clark—” Judy, wrapped in her own thoughts,
couldn’t care less.

The sun broke through the heavy mist and the two ladies peeled off
several layers of covering. For all Judy’s abstraction, she couldn’t
help identifying them through their formal address of each other.

“Miss Simms, that mountain is Granite.”

“Look at the map, Miss Clark, it’s Mt. Massive.”

The gray, fuzzy ringleted Miss Clark in her mouselike turban was still
cheering for Granite. Miss Simms, her hair a shiny black, two spots of
rouge giving her an odd, clownlike look, stoutly maintained otherwise.
Suddenly Judy remembered: These were the two birdlike visitors whom she
had tried to sketch at the Seminar Building.

“I see you lost your job as guide,” Judy remarked to Fran.

He nodded, “Teachers are smart but queer. Imagine, they came to the
office yesterday just to find out the exact route so they could be
prepared with maps and things.”

“Not music teachers?”

“No, High School. They were in Aspen three weeks and took in every
lecture night and day and concerts in between.” Fran shook his head over
such incredible industry. “In the fifteen minutes they were in the
office they gave me advice as if I were their long lost brother.”

“About what?”

“About learning. ‘You don’t want to be a cab driver all your life? How
about studying at night? Or taking correspondence courses. There are
some good ones.’” Fran shrugged his shoulders. “I told them I like what
I’m doing—making money, helping Mom out with the kids, skiing in winter,
and I make money then too, enjoying life. They looked kind of disgusted
or maybe just disappointed. ‘Where’s your ambition?’ they asked.”

The car made a turn skirting a deep precipice. Accustomed to Fran’s
sadistic pleasure in scaring his passengers, Judy repressed her own
impulse to cry out. Besides, there had been enough terrified “Ohs”
during the last two hours.

“Will I be thankful when we get to Leadville,” Miss Clark said
resignedly. “I understand we can get an excellent meal there—a
restaurant famous in the old silver-mining days.”

“I’m hungry too. How much longer will it be before we get there?”

Fran turned around squarely, an old habit of his. “In about an hour or
so.”

“Don’t you dare turn around like that!” came the stern rebuke. “Look,
another car’s approaching.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Simms, that car’s not moving, waiting for us to pass,
I guess.”

They approached the waiting car. It rested precariously on the edge of
the road, part of it in the deep gully. A young man stood beside it, an
anxious smile on his unshaven face.

“What’s the trouble?” Fran asked, sticking his head out of the window.

“I hit one of those rocks.”

Fran didn’t wait to hear any more. He got out, followed by all his
passengers.

“The rocks must have fallen during the night,” the man went on. “I was
trying to steer clear of one boulder when I hit the other. The tire
blew. I guess we were lucky at that.”

A baby’s wail startled the group. “Is that a baby crying?”

The man pointed to a piece of flat ground partially hidden by scrub and
trees. “My wife’s over there. The little feller hasn’t stopped yelling
for an hour.”

Mrs. Lurie started toward the clearing, followed by the teachers and
Judy.

“Can we be of any help?” Mrs. Lurie timidly inquired.

The young woman looked up, a radiant smile transfiguring her thin face.
She was sitting on a rug untidily surrounded by cans, pots, and zippered
bags.

“Awfully nice of you folks to stop,” she said, talking over the head of
the screaming child. “I was beginning to think ours was the only car on
this terrible road. Your driver going to help my Jim?”

“Of course,” Judy said quickly. “He’s getting the tools out of the trunk
right now.”

“What a beautiful baby!” cooed Miss Simms.

“Beautiful,” echoed Miss Clark.

“I was just thinking maybe I should warm some milk. He won’t touch the
nice bologna sandwich we brought along.”

Miss Simms shuddered visibly. “Maybe it’s just as well the little man
refused it. Why don’t you and Mrs. Lurie see about the milk. Miss Clark
and I will amuse the baby.” She firmly took hold of the protesting
child.

“High-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle—” on and on went the
strangely sweet tones, while Miss Clark bounced the baby up and down in
what even Judy knew was thoroughly unorthodox fashion. The baby quieted
... smiled.

“Judy,” Fran shouted. “Come over here and lend a hand. We’ve got to get
the car squarely on the road before we can take off the tire. Lucky
she’s light. You, Judy, grab the front with Jim. I’ll take the ditch
side. One, two, three, heave—” The car was set on the road.

In half an hour tube and tire were patched, air pumped in, and the spare
examined.

“Everything’s O.K. Where’d you say you were heading for, Jim?”

“Los Angeles. I’ve a good job I’m to take over in two weeks. A lucky
break. I was laid off back in Detroit for two months.”

Mrs. Jim joined them and placed the sleeping baby into the car bed. Her
bundles, neatly packed by the faithful, were beside her.

“Our only worry,” Jim went on, “is where we’re going to live. The
company couldn’t promise a thing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve got
to take our chances.”

“Not have a place to live—and with a baby—that’s awful!” Judy exclaimed
involuntarily.

Mrs. Jim turned. “No, it’s not awful. Jim’s got a job and we’ve got our
health. The rest is in the Lord’s hands. Didn’t He send you good people
along?”

A few minutes later they were saying good-bye after having wished each
other well. They drove off in opposite directions.

For a while something intangible silenced the energetic teachers.
Perhaps they and Mrs. Lurie were weighing the possible hazards that
still awaited Jim and his family.

Fran finally found his tongue. “I think it’s putting quite a strain on
the Lord to expect Him to send a car along—or find sleeping quarters!
Don’t you agree, Judy?”

“Maybe.” She was thinking of her own problems now dwarfed by the recent
encounter. “Faith is beautiful,” she said dreamily.

“Beautiful, but not sensible,” Fran answered with a skeptical grin.

An hour later they reached a town. Passing warehouses and unpretentious
stores, Fran drove straight to a plain-looking restaurant with an
enormous sign, “Welcome to Leadville and Walker’s Cafe and Bar.”

“Here’s where we eat,” Fran told the crestfallen Judy, who had envisaged
a gilded palace.

Seated at a longish wooden table, each studied the oversized menu card.
Next to such tempting items as sizzled hamburgers with Western
trimmings, steak hunter style, and the like were pictures of once famous
mines and in fine print, the history of Leadville. Judy, her appetite
for the printed word unimpaired, read avidly while munching her food.

“The population of Leadville, once sixty-five thousand, has dwindled to
five. Look, here’s a picture of Matchless that Horace Tabor gave to Baby
Doe!”

“What, another baby?” Miss Simms innocently inquired.

Judy shrugged her shoulders.

“Why of all things!” Miss Clark eagerly turned to Fran. “Climax is only
fifteen miles from here. Any chance of our passing it? It’s the biggest
molybdenum mine in the world.”

“No, I’m afraid not. What kind of a mine was that you mentioned?” Fran
asked, stumped for once.

“You mean molybdenum? It’s a metal used in steel. You see, being a
chemistry teacher, I happen to know about it.”

If there was anything left of the glamour of the old silver-mining days,
the Little Percenters got no glimpse of it. On they traveled over the
winding road, seven thousand feet high, the ravines dotted with mines
worked today for uranium and other strategic metals.

Barely leaving the towering peaks behind them, they drove into the
shining city of Denver, as impressive in its setting of modern
skyscrapers as Leadville was mean and dingy.

“We’ll soon be getting to the airport, Judy—”

“Yes, Fran.”

“I just wanted to tell you that Karl promised to write to me. Could
you—that is when you have time—would you—”

“Of course, I will. It’ll sort of be a link between us and Karl.”

“Thanks. I want to ask you something else. Do you think I should study
the way those teachers said?”

“It would be wonderful if you can manage. Why don’t you speak to them
before they go on the train? They’re very nice and kind. They like to
help people.”

“I will. One thing more. Books, the kind you and Karl go for—” He
paused, then smiling sheepishly, said, “Maybe I’m biting off more than I
can chew.”

“No. Books are wonderful. I can send them. We’ve shelves and shelves
filled with them. And I’ll get the list from our librarian. You’d be
surprised at the wonderful books there are, in the libraries just for
the asking.”

“You see, I don’t want Karl to be ashamed of me—when he comes back—maybe
famous.”

“When Karl comes back,” Judy’s voice shook a little, “we’ll have a grand
reunion in Aspen!”

At the airport, Mrs. Lurie shook hands warmly with the teachers, whom
she had gotten to know and like. To Fran she said, “You’re a fine driver
and a kind and capable young man.”

Judy too made amends for her early indifference. “We’re like ships that
pass in the night,” she told the astonished teachers, “friendly, helpful
ships,” and she smiled enigmatically.

The Little Percent with its remaining passengers drove off.




                                   20
                          MOTHER AND DAUGHTER


Judy, seated next to her mother, watched as the plane raced along the
runway and without a tremor felt it rise skyward. Experience had already
dulled the fine edge of wonder.

The girl slumped in her seat, closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. She
had to think. Her mother tentatively turned the pages of a book.

Judy’s brows were knitted, her lips moved wordlessly. Think things
out—face reality! How often in the months ahead could she see Karl? She
knew his demanding schedule: newspaper route ... final year at school
... homework ... violin lessons ... practice ... practice. The lone
pupil anxiously retained ... concerts ... people to see ... Mr. Werther
... preparations to leave ... when would there be time for her?

She had recoiled from the thought of the vast Atlantic Ocean dividing
them. But what of the hour and a half journey from his home in
Washington Heights to hers in Washington Square? No more would there be
the casual dropping in as at Aspen. No time for soul-searching talks,
their dreams and hopes: books, America, Israel, even religion! No, nor
hear him play some new, aborted little tune he’d just composed!

She recalled the romantic stories in magazines she affected to despise
but frequently enjoyed. “True love never runs smooth!” The magazines,
she acknowledged, had cheap, lurid covers but they tell the truth about
love! Her shoulders sank even lower nor could she restrain a deep sigh.

Mrs. Lurie let the book slide from her hands. She put an arm around her
daughter. Her heart ached for her and she wanted to say something. But
what? I can’t tell her she’ll probably get over it like a case of
measles! Mrs. Lurie blushed at her own callousness. Her fingers pressed
the girl’s shoulders, each finger saying, “I love you. I want to help
you. I want you to talk to me.”

Her eyes no longer pretending sleep, Judy responded to the unspoken
tenderness. “Mother, did Father tell you that Karl is going away for
perhaps years?”

“Yes, he told me last night.”

“And in the months before he goes, how often will I be able to see him?
He’s so busy,” she said dejectedly.

“If he wants to see you, he’ll make time somehow. Nothing will stop
him.”

“You think so?” A quick smile lighted the girl’s face, only to vanish a
moment later.

“He’ll be in a foreign country, meeting students from every part of the
world, maybe travel, get to know clever, sophisticated girls like
Marian—while I remain a dull schoolgirl. What is there so special to
remember about me!”

“You’re far from dull, Judy, and so much humility isn’t exactly becoming
to you or in character. Remember all the things you threatened to do!
Paint, write—”

She patted her affectionately. “Besides, Karl isn’t going on a picnic
exactly or touring Europe in the grand manner. He’ll have to work hard,
harder than ever. It isn’t only his violin technique, but studying and
understanding the great music of the old masters as well as the moderns.
He’ll need every ounce of concentrated effort. Since you love him and he
loves you, be content with that! Have faith in each other—”

Judy pondered. Faith—that’s what Mrs. Jim has.

Aloud she said, “A week ago, Mother, you spoke very differently. You
dismissed me and Karl as if—”

“I know.” Mrs. Lurie hurriedly broke in. “I didn’t believe you were old
enough or capable of feeling so deeply about a boy. I’ve done a lot of
thinking since then. Besides, you’re not going to sit idly waiting like
a lily in a pond, looking pale and wistful. In your way you’ll be as
busy as Karl.”

“You mean college?”

“Yes. Major in English as you so often said, or sociology. You seem to
have a curious bent in that direction, a heritage, no doubt, from your
grandmother. And you said you wanted to take up your music again—now
it’s sort of inevitable,” she laughed, “if only to keep pace with Karl.”
Mrs. Lurie paused. “Karl will meet young people and,” she added
cautiously, “so will you. You’ll have dates, have fun, and live the life
of a normal young girl. With work to do and plans to make for yourself
and others, the few years of so-called waiting will pass more quickly
than you now think possible.”

“I hope you’re right, Mother.” Judy’s spirits lifted.

In a crisp, matter-of-fact voice Mrs. Lurie went on, “Most young people
today have to endure separation before they are ready to make a life
together. They go to different colleges, are often compelled to take
jobs that take them far from their home moorings, like your Cousin
Robbie who got his first opportunity at engineering in South America.
And, of course, today young men have to serve in the armed forces,
usually overseas, even in peacetime. Yet, most of these early loves
endure.”

“I’m glad you say that, Mother,” Judy’s eyes shone.

Mrs. Lurie pressed the girl’s shoulder lovingly. She smiled a little
self-consciously. “It wasn’t only your grandparents whose love, as the
novels say, overcame all obstacles—”

“You and Father?”

Mrs. Lurie nodded.

“Funny, I never heard you speak about your romance. Why?”

“I don’t know. You never asked and we’ve been busy being happy and
enjoying our work. We never think of the past. Maybe when you’re old,
memories are more important. But as I look back, the years of waiting
didn’t hurt us. I saw many of my friends marry while still at college,
the boy and girl graduating together, sometimes with a baby on the
campus. Maybe we would have liked that too, but John was studying and
playing the viola in Philadelphia and getting his M.A. at the same time.
I had school and was studying voice in New York.” She smiled at the
recollection. “It only toughened our resolution to marry as soon as we
could.”

“I think it’s exciting to know about you and Father. It makes me happy.
If you could do it, so can I.”

“Of course, you can. There’s only one little difference. When your
father and I went together, what you youngsters call ‘going steady,’ I
was nineteen and your father, twenty-two.”

“Oh, Mother, what difference does a few years make! The main thing is
that we love each other. Karl is mature, much older than his years. Why
wouldn’t he be with all he’s gone through and endured? He’s not like the
boys who only live for a football game or having a good time.” She
clasped and unclasped her hands, then said quietly, “I want to be
perfect, be all that I know Karl admires. Of course, I won’t be able to,
not always. Maybe never. But I’m going to try.”

At her mother’s look of slight alarm, Judy laughed. “Don’t worry, I know
I can’t live like a hermit. I’ll go places and to parties when I’m
invited. But,” and she shook her head emphatically, “every boy will know
in advance I’m going steady, at least in spirit!” She laughed gaily at
her little joke.

It was now Mrs. Lurie who sighed, but with relief! Judy, for all her
acceptance of the role of waiting for her hero to return, would be no
princess locked up in her lonely castle. Her self-pity had vanished. She
was ready to admit that life wasn’t finished at sixteen.

Mother and daughter leaned back in their seats, relaxed, conscious of a
new closeness. Mrs. Lurie was wise enough to know there would not always
be clear and easy sailing in the months and years ahead. There would be
other storms, other moments of anger or dispute. But the basis for
understanding between them was deep and could never be shaken.




                           DISCOVERY AT ASPEN


                           _By_ SOPHIE RUSKAY

                     _Illustrated by Janet D’Amato_

Judy is a young girl just past her fifteenth year. Her parents are
musicians—staff members at the Music School at Aspen—and they are
anxious for her to share with them some of the enchantment of the famed
music festival in Colorado.

But for Judy other plans and other dreams are more important. A part in
the new theatre group? Romance? Adventure? Anything but the dreary
routine of piano lessons and practice. In her attempt to escape the
discipline of the musician’s life, she explores Aspen and inadvertently
finds herself caught up in the lore of the early mining history of that
community. Baby Doe, the old Opera House, the ghost town of Ashcroft are
mysterious wonders which begin to awaken in her a new interest in her
surroundings. Her meeting with Karl, a talented refugee from Nazi
Austria, and their adventures together on the snowy mountain cliffs help
to fulfill her dreams of romantic love—an experience through which she
attains not only the depth and understanding of her parents but her own
maturity.

What threatens to be a dismal summer for Judy becomes a time of
discovery of herself, of music and of America.

                        _A Wonderful World Book_

Teenage


                           _About the Author_

                     [Illustration: Sophie Ruskay]

Sophie Ruskay enjoys a family life very much like the one she creates in
_Discovery at Aspen_. Having raised a family of five children, she has
now added twelve grandchildren, many of them teenagers who consider her
their friend and compassionate advisor. She is the author of _Horsecars
and Cobblestones_, a warmly received novel of immigrant life in New York
at the turn of the century. The same understanding which she showed in
that work, she now applies to the story of a young teenager whose
problems and frustrations she depicts with deep sympathy.

Mrs. Ruskay writes of the world around her with an eager eye and a
responsive spirit. The grandeur of Aspen, its natural beauties, its
cultural life as well as its historical heritage—all are graphically
described. It is in this setting that we see the young generation of
today striving for self-realization, often in rebellion against their
parents during this trying period of adolescence.

Mrs. Ruskay has been a beloved figure in her community for many years,
participating in the cultural, philanthropic and civic activities as a
creative and energetic leader. She has written and directed a large
number of plays which have been notable for their humor and social
awareness. Perhaps the most significant demonstration of Mrs. Ruskay’s
life-long devotion to literature and drama is seen in her formation and
leadership of a literary class in the Women’s House of Detention in New
York City.


                         Also by Sophie Ruskay:
                      _Horsecars and Cobblestones_
                     Illustrated by Cecil B. Ruskay

                                                       PRINTED IN U.S.A.


                     _Other Wonderful World Books_

  THE PERSIAN DONKEY BEAD
  _By_ MARGARET KRAENZEL
                                      _Illustrated by Peter Fellin_

The rich and moving story of a young Iranian boy who leaves his small
farm village to search for his father, with help of an Arab girl, in the
crowded squares, the apartment houses and slums, and even the great
underground bazaar of Tehran.

  FOR LIFE AND LIBERTY
  _By_ JANET NEAVLES
                                      _Illustrated by Delia Marcel_

Nate rides his thoroughbred filly Liberty Maid on a race to save his
family’s farm from Joseph Brant’s Indians in this fine historical novel
set in upper New York State during the Revolutionary War.

  THE SLAVE WHO SAVED THE CITY and Other Hassidic Tales
  _By_ HARRY M. RABINOWICZ
                                      _Illustrated by Ahron Gelles_

The glowing, miraculous legends grown around Rabbi Israel Baal Shem-Tob,
the father of Hassidism, lovingly collected and especially adapted for
young readers.

  DOUBLOONS
  _By_ MARISTAN CHAPMAN
                                   _Illustrated by Carl T. Herrman_

A rousing mystery-adventure story in which four Tennessee boys are
plunged by a hurricane into the Florida Everglades, are “rescued” by
modern pirates and stranded in the Ten Thousand Islands, and discover
pirate gold.


                New York: A. S. BARNES and COMPANY, INC.
                     London: THOMAS YOSELOFF, LTD.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


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