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"
Supper
almost
ready
?
"
he
asked
pleasantly
.
"
Yes
.
"
Fern
set
the
kitchen
table
.
There
was
a
bulbing
cry
from
outside
.
Once
,
twice
,
three
times
—
far
away
.
"
What
’
s
that
?
"
Frank
peered
through
the
kitchen
window
into
the
dusk
.
"
What
’
s
Roberta
up
to
?
Look
at
her
out
there
,
sitting
in
the
Green
Machine
,
poking
the
rubber
horn
!
"
Once
,
twice
more
,
in
the
dusk
,
softly
,
like
some
kind
of
mournful
animal
,
the
bulbing
sound
was
pinched
out
.
"
What
’
s
got
into
her
?
"
demanded
Frank
.
"
You
just
leave
her
alone
!
"
screamed
Fern
.
Frank
looked
surprised
.
A
moment
later
Roberta
entered
quietly
,
without
looking
at
anyone
,
and
they
all
sat
down
to
supper
.
The
first
light
on
the
roof
outside
;
very
early
morning
.
The
leaves
on
all
the
trees
tremble
with
a
soft
awakening
to
any
breeze
the
dawn
may
offer
.
And
then
,
far
off
,
around
a
curve
of
silver
track
,
comes
the
trolley
,
balanced
on
four
small
steel
-
blue
wheels
,
and
it
is
painted
the
color
of
tangerines
.
Epaulets
of
shimmery
brass
cover
it
and
pipings
of
gold
;
and
its
chrome
bell
bings
if
the
ancient
motorman
taps
it
with
a
wrinkled
shoe
.
The
numerals
on
the
trolley
’
s
front
1
,
and
sides
are
bright
as
lemons
.
Within
,
its
seats
prickle
with
;
cool
green
moss
.
Something
like
a
buggy
whip
flings
up
from
its
roof
to
brush
the
spider
thread
high
in
the
passing
trees
from
which
it
takes
its
juice
.
From
every
window
blows
an
incense
,
the
all
-
pervasive
blue
and
secret
smell
of
summer
storms
and
lightning
.
