Free Fog Magic by Julia L. Sauer

your going for walks on a Sunday,” her mother said.
    â€œJust this once, Mother,” Greta begged. “And I promise I’ll be back in plenty of time for Young People’s meeting.”
    At the fork Old Man Himion’s house showed plainly. But there was no smoke from his chimney and ahead of her, where the Old Road entered the spruce woods, she thought she saw his tall figure merge with the fog. Old Man Himion, too, was going to the Captain’s funeral.
    As she passed the Sentinel Rocks, Greta could see people coming up from the shore. They had come from up and down the coast in their boats and they were climbing the steep road from the wharf in solemn, hushed little groups. Unwilling to meet so many strangers, she walked slowly until they had all turned into the street. By the time she reached the clearing they were out of sight in the fog.
    She found Retha in the doorway with Princess in her arms. There were children in the other doorways, too, and they called to Greta in hushed voices. Anthony had crawled to his favorite spot inside the fence and he kept the babies he was minding very quiet.
    â€œMother said I could stay outside until the procession leaves the church,” Retha told her. “Then I’m to go inside so as not to seem curious about others’ sorrow.”
    It was so quiet that they could hear the murmur of voices from the church at the end of the street. Princess had slipped down to curl gracefully on the stone doorstep.
    â€œSo many of the things that happen here seem sad things,” Greta said finally.
    Retha looked at her in astonishment. “Isn’t there sorrow where you live?” she asked.
    â€œOf course,” Greta was forced to admit.
    â€œBut less than here?” Retha wanted to know.
    â€œI don’t know. No—I guess not.”
    Retha seemed relieved. “My mother says that living and dying are such natural things that one shouldn’t be any more sorrowful than the other. Unless they are deaths because of a war. That’s different, of course. I mean, when—when people die that way it isn’t natural —or it isn’t part of what she calls everyday living. But, thank goodness, we don’t have to be afraid of war. There’s no need for our country ever, ever to have another war, is there?”
    Greta thought of the war that was shadowing the whole world and she groped helplessly for a reply.
    â€œBut sometimes somebody else makes you fight when you don’t want to. You just have to fight,” she tried to explain.
    â€œThat’s silly,” said Retha. “Nobody has to fight.” Greta knew she could never explain to Retha the riddle of her generation. She was relieved to see that the service was over. Through the fog came a slow procession.
    They slipped indoors and the other children did the same. Only Anthony stayed outside, peering through the pickets of the fence with his strange questioning eyes.
    It was a small procession that followed the coffin along the village street to the old Post Road and turned east to go over the mountain. Laleah Cornwall walked straight and proud in her widow’s weeds; friends and relatives followed, and the Emmeretta’s crew, awkward in their shore clothes, came at the end. When she was sure that she would be in no danger of overtaking it, Greta started home over the mountain.
    Late that afternoon, when the Young People’s meeting in her own church parlor was over, Greta slipped out into the cemetery and stepped quietly between the familiar graves. But there was no fresh mound there, unsodded and recent.

9
    . THE GOVERNMENT HOUSE BALL
    G RETA often wished that she could hear more about the persons she met or saw or became interested in at Blue Cove. Sometimes things happened while she was there that were as exciting as a cinema and she felt as she did once or twice when she had had to leave before a picture was finished. Sometimes it was like