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social origins, which are German and lace-curtain Irish. But damn it, I had no such prejudice. It was something else that bothered me. Nobody truly occupies a station in life any more. There are mostly people who feel that they occupy the place that belongs to another by rights. There are displaced persons everywhere. "For who shall abide the day of His (the rightful one's) coming?" "And who shall stand when He (the rightful one) appeareth?" When the rightful one appeareth we shall all stand and file out, glad at heart and greatly relieved, and saying, "Welcome back, Bud. It's all yours. Barns and houses are yours. Autumn beauty is yours. Take it, take it, take it!" Maybe Lily was fighting along this line and the picture was going to be her proof that she and I were the rightful ones. But there is already a painting of me among the others. They have hard collars and whiskers, while I am at the end of a line in my National Guard uniform and hold a bayonet. And what good has this picture ever done me? So I couldn't be serious about Lily's proposed solution to our problem. Now listen, I loved my older brother, Dick. He was the sanest of us, with a splendid record in the First World War, a regular lion. But for one moment he resembled me, his kid brother, and that was the end of him. He was on vacation, sitting at the counter of a Greek diner, the Acropolis Diner, near Plattsburg, New York, having a cup of coffee with a buddy and writing a post card home. But his fountain pen was balky, and he cursed it, and said to his friend, "Here. Hold this pen up." The young fellow did it and Dick took out his pistol and shot the pen from his hand. No one was injured. The roar was terrible. Then it was discovered that the bullet which had smashed the pen to bits had also pierced the coffee urn and made a fountain of the urn, which gushed straight across the diner in a hot stream to the window opposite. The Greek phoned for the state troopers, and during the chase Dick smashed his car into an embankment. He and his pal then tried to swim the river, and the pal had the presence of mind to strip his clothes, but Dick had on cavalry boots and they filled up and drowned him. This left my father alone in the world with me, my sister having died in 1901. I was working that summer for Wilbur, a fellow in our neighborhood, cutting up old cars. But now it is Xmas week. Lily is standing on the basement stairs. Paris and Chartres and V�lay and 57th Street are far behind us. I have the violin in my hands, and the fatal rug from Danbury under my feet. The red robe is on my back. And the hunting cap? I sometimes think it keeps my head in one piece. The gray wind of December is sweeping down the overhang of the roof and playing bassoons on the loose rain pipes. Notwithstanding this noise I hear the baby cry. And Lily says, "Can you hear it?" "I can't hear a thing, you know I'm a little deaf," I said, which is true. "Then how can you hear the violin?" "Well, I'm standing right next to it, I should be able to hear it," I said. "Stop me if I'm wrong," I said, "but I seem to remember that you told me once I was your only friend in all the world." "But--" said Lily. "I can't understand you," I said. "Go away." At two o'clock there were some callers, and they heard the cries from upstairs but were too well bred to mention them. I'd banked on that. To break up the tension, however, I said, "Would anybody like to visit my pistol range downstairs?" There were no takers and I went below myself and fired a few rounds. The bullets made a tremendous noise among the hot-air ducts. Soon I heard the visitors saying good-by. Later, when the baby was asleep, Lily talked Ricey into going skating on the pond. I had bought skates for everyone, and Ricey is still young enough to be appealed to in this way. When they were gone, Lily having given me this opportunity, I laid down the fiddle and stole upstairs to Ricey's room. Quietly I opened the closet door and saw the infant