of poorly built shacks, almost all of them with garden spots turned brown by the autumn chill. An occasional cow nibbled at the dry grass. Small children, attracted by the sight of a girl on a fine black horse, came to the edge of the road. Many of them cried out, “Give me a ride!” but Laurie only smiled and rode by.
The town itself was bigger than any she’d ever seen. Shepassed a section composed of factories, and then rode into the main business district, taking in the shop windows filled with women’s clothing that she’d seen only in advertisements. The streets themselves were broad and bustling with activity—congested with buggies, carriages, many horses, and large wagons loaded with freight.
Along this route, too, she attracted attention, for though she saw many women in the buggies, there were none on horseback. The stares of the people made her uncomfortable, and she began to wish she’d gone around the town.
Soon she arrived at the Palace Hotel, turned right, and almost at once found herself riding down a broad street shaded by huge elm trees. The houses were finer here, large Victorian style dwellings with gingerbread trim and high windows. Most of them had separate carriage houses and some had gazebos in the spacious front yards. The leaves were falling, carpeting the dry, brown grass with crisp layers, like a red and orange crust. Children played here, too, but were better dressed—though the smaller ones still came to the street to ask for rides.
Ten minutes later, she saw on her right a large two-story red brick structure set back at least a hundred feet from the street. It was not a house, for it was too plain and too large for that, and she saw numbers of young people walking along the pathways that crisscrossed under large oaks. “That must be it,” she murmured, then seeing a small brass sign set back off the road, she rode closer until she could read the letters—WILSON COLLEGE.
Pulling the horse up sharply, she looked at the square building and noted that there were two frame structures, obviously housing for the students. Then she stooped and patted the neck of the horse. “Well, we’re finally here, Star.”
But she was uneasy, for this was another world. She had grown up in places where the land never seemed to meet the sky, but stretched out for enormous distances. This world was small, cut into sections and bordered by trees so thatshe could only see small parts of it. She felt it closing in on her and was filled with a sensation of being pushed into a tiny closet.
The people of this world would be different; she knew that instinctively. The denizens of her world had been hard-muscled, sunburned troopers, blowzy washwomen, seedy civilian clerks, and obsidian-eyed Apache. But somehow she sensed as she took in the well-dressed young people walking and laughing that even in this seemingly soft and gentle world there would be those who were not so tender.
Taking a deep breath, Laurie touched Star with her heels, whispering, “They’ll just have to move over and make room for us, won’t they, Star?”
A circular drive made of some sort of shells arched in front of the main building, and she stepped out of the saddle and tied Star to the hitching rail along with three other saddle horses. Moving resolutely, she mounted the three steps and reached out to open the polished oak door. It swung toward her even as her hand pulled the brass handle, and a small man with a pair of glasses perched on his nose almost fell flat on his face.
“What—!” Catching his balance, he straightened up and gave Laurie an indignant stare. He was a short man with a very rotund stomach, dressed in a gray flannel suit that made him look like a gray stork. He had a mouth like a purse and opened it now only slightly to demand in a nasal tone, “What’s that you’re wearing? Is the circus come to town?”
“Oh—no, sir,” Laurie stammered. Behind him, in the entranceway, she noticed a covey of
The town itself was bigger than any she’d ever seen. Shepassed a section composed of factories, and then rode into the main business district, taking in the shop windows filled with women’s clothing that she’d seen only in advertisements. The streets themselves were broad and bustling with activity—congested with buggies, carriages, many horses, and large wagons loaded with freight.
Along this route, too, she attracted attention, for though she saw many women in the buggies, there were none on horseback. The stares of the people made her uncomfortable, and she began to wish she’d gone around the town.
Soon she arrived at the Palace Hotel, turned right, and almost at once found herself riding down a broad street shaded by huge elm trees. The houses were finer here, large Victorian style dwellings with gingerbread trim and high windows. Most of them had separate carriage houses and some had gazebos in the spacious front yards. The leaves were falling, carpeting the dry, brown grass with crisp layers, like a red and orange crust. Children played here, too, but were better dressed—though the smaller ones still came to the street to ask for rides.
Ten minutes later, she saw on her right a large two-story red brick structure set back at least a hundred feet from the street. It was not a house, for it was too plain and too large for that, and she saw numbers of young people walking along the pathways that crisscrossed under large oaks. “That must be it,” she murmured, then seeing a small brass sign set back off the road, she rode closer until she could read the letters—WILSON COLLEGE.
Pulling the horse up sharply, she looked at the square building and noted that there were two frame structures, obviously housing for the students. Then she stooped and patted the neck of the horse. “Well, we’re finally here, Star.”
But she was uneasy, for this was another world. She had grown up in places where the land never seemed to meet the sky, but stretched out for enormous distances. This world was small, cut into sections and bordered by trees so thatshe could only see small parts of it. She felt it closing in on her and was filled with a sensation of being pushed into a tiny closet.
The people of this world would be different; she knew that instinctively. The denizens of her world had been hard-muscled, sunburned troopers, blowzy washwomen, seedy civilian clerks, and obsidian-eyed Apache. But somehow she sensed as she took in the well-dressed young people walking and laughing that even in this seemingly soft and gentle world there would be those who were not so tender.
Taking a deep breath, Laurie touched Star with her heels, whispering, “They’ll just have to move over and make room for us, won’t they, Star?”
A circular drive made of some sort of shells arched in front of the main building, and she stepped out of the saddle and tied Star to the hitching rail along with three other saddle horses. Moving resolutely, she mounted the three steps and reached out to open the polished oak door. It swung toward her even as her hand pulled the brass handle, and a small man with a pair of glasses perched on his nose almost fell flat on his face.
“What—!” Catching his balance, he straightened up and gave Laurie an indignant stare. He was a short man with a very rotund stomach, dressed in a gray flannel suit that made him look like a gray stork. He had a mouth like a purse and opened it now only slightly to demand in a nasal tone, “What’s that you’re wearing? Is the circus come to town?”
“Oh—no, sir,” Laurie stammered. Behind him, in the entranceway, she noticed a covey of
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