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By Root 6125 0

wept and we turned aside to spare him. He stood beside the graves while the bulldozer began its work.

Menasha and I went toward the limousine. The side of his foot brushed away some of last autumn’s leaves and he said, looking through his goggles, “What’s this, Charlie, a spring flower?”

“It is. I guess it’s going to happen after all. On a warm day like this everything looks ten times deader.”

“So it’s a little flower,” Menasha said. “They used to tell one about a kid asking his grumpy old man when they were walking in the park, ‘What’s the name of this flower, Papa?’ and the old guy is peevish and he yells, ‘How should I know? Am I in the millinery business?’ Here’s another, but what do you suppose they’re called, Charlie?”

“Search me,” I said. “I’m a city boy myself. They must be crocuses.”

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