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around the room until she could calm down a little。 After a
few minutes she stopped before the picture she had painted at
the free government art class for school kids last winter。 There
was a picture of a storm on the ocean and a sea gull being
dashed through the air by the wind。 It was called 'Sea Gull
with Back Broken in Storm。' The teacher had described the
ocean during the first two or three lessons； and that was what
nearly everybody started with。 Most of the kids were like her；
though； and they had never really seen the ocean with their
own eyes。
That was the first picture she had done and Bill had tacked it
on his wall。 All the rest of her pictures were full of people。
She had done some more ocean storms at first —one with an
airplane crashing down and people jumping out to save
themselves； and another with a trans…Atlan
37
tic liner going down and all the people trying to push and
crowd into one little lifeboat。
Mick went into the closet of Bill's room and brought out some
other pictures she had done in the class—some pencil
drawings； some water…colors； and one canvas with oils。 They
were all full of people。 She had imagined a big fire on Broad
Street and painted how she thought it would be。 The flames
were bright green and orange and Mr。 Bran…non's restaurant
and the First National Bank were about the only buildings left。
People were lying dead in the streets and others were running
for their lives。 One man was in his nightshirt and a lady was
trying to carry a bunch of bananas with her。 Another picture
was called 'Boiler Busts in Factory；' and men were jumping
out of windows and running while a knot of kids in overalls
stood scrouged together； holding the buckets of dinner they
had brought to their Daddies。 The oil painting was a picture of
the whole town fighting on Broad Street。 She never knew why
she had painted this one and she couldn't think of the right
name for it。 There wasn't any fire or storm or reason you could
see in the picture why all this battle was happening。 But there
were more people and more moving around than in any other
picture。 This was the best one； and it was too bad that she
couldn't think up the real name。 In the back of her mind
somewhere she knew what it was。
Mick put the picture back on the closet shelf。 None of them
were any good much。 The people didn't have fingers and some
of the arms were longer than the legs。 The class had been fun；
though。 But she had just drawn whatever came into her head
without reason—and in her heart it didn't give her near the
same feeling that music did。 Nothing was really as good as
music。
Mick knelt down on the floor and quickly lifted the top of the
big hatbox。 Inside was a cracked ukulele strung with two
violin strings； a guitar string and a banjo string。 The crack on
the back of the ukulele had been neatly mended with sticking
plaster and the round hole in the middle was covered by a
piece of wood。 The bridge of a violin held up the strings at the
end and some sound…holes had been carved on either side。
Mick was making herself a violin。 She held the violin in her
lap。 She had the feeling she had38
never really looked at it before。 Some time ago she made
Bubber a little play mandolin out of a cigar box with rubber
bands； and that put the idea into her head。 Since that she had
hunted all over everywhere for the different parts and added a
little to the job every day。 It seemed to her she had done
everything except use her head。
'Bill； this don't look like any real violin I ever saw。' He was
still reading—'Yeah—？'
'It just don't look right。 It just don't'
She had planned to tune the fiddle that day by screwing the
pegs。 But since she had suddenly realized how all the work
had turned out she didn't want to look at it。 Slowly she
plucked one string after another。 They all made the same little
hollow…sounding ping。
'How anyway will I ever get a bow？ Are you sure they have to
be made out of just horses' hair？' 'Yeah；' said Bill impatiently。
'Nothing like thin wire or human hair strung on a limber stick
would do？'
Bill rubbed his feet against each other and didn't answer。
Anger made beads of sweat come out on her forehead。
Her voice was hoarse。 'It's not even a bad violin。 It's only
a cross between a mandolin and a ukulele。 And I hate
them。 I hate them'
Bill turned around。
'It's all turned out wrong。 It won't do。 It's no good。' Tipe down；'
said Bill。 'Are you just carrying on about that old broken
ukulele you've been fooling with？ I could have told you at first
it was crazy to think you could make any violin。 That's one
thing you don't sit down and make —you got to buy them。 I
thought anybody would know a thing like that。 But I figured it
wouldn't hurt yon if you found out for yourself。'
Sometimes she hated Bill more than anyone else in the world。
He was different entirely from what he used to be。 She started
to slam the violin down on the floor and stomp on it； but
instead she put it back roughly into the hatbox。 The tears were
hot in her eyes as fire。 She gave the box a kick and ran from
the room without looking at Bill。
As she was dodging through the hall to get to the back yard
she ran into her Mama。
39
'What's the matter with you？ What have you been into now？'
Mick tried to jerk loose； but her Mama held on to her arm。
Sullenly she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her
hand。 Her Mama had been in the kitchen and she wore her
apron and house…shoes。 As usual she looked as though she had
a lot on her mind and didn't have time to ask her any more
questions。
'Mr。 Jackson has brought his two sisters to dinner and there
won't be but just enough chairs； so today you're to eat in the
kitchen with Bubber。'
'That*s hunky…dory with me；' Mick said。
Her Mama let her go and went to take off her apron。 From the
dining…room there came the sound of the dinner bell and a
sudden glad outbreak of talking。 She could hear her Dad
saying how much he had lost by not keeping up his accident
insurance until the time he broke bis hip。 That was one thing
her Dad could never get off his mind —ways he could have
made money and didn't。 There was a clatter of dishes； and
after a while the talking stopped。
Mick leaned on the banisters of the stairs。 The sudden crying
had started her with the hiccups。 It seemed to her as she
thought back over the last month that she had never really
believed in her mind that the violin would work。 But in her
heart she had kept making herself believe。 And even now it
was hard not to believe a little。 She was tired out。 Bill wasn't
ever a help with anything now。 She used to think Bill was the
grandest person in the world。 She used to follow after him
every place he went— out fishing in the woods； to the
clubhouses he built with other boys； to the slot machine in the
back of Mr。 Bran…non's restaurant—everywhere。 Maybe he
hadn't meant to let her down like this。 But anyway they could
never be good buddies again。
In the hall there was the smell of cigarettes and Sunday