ife. "We are
brothers," he said again. "We have different names but we are brothers.
Our father you understand went off to sea."

* * * * *

I am sitting in my house in the country and it rains. Before my eyes the
hills fall suddenly away and there are the flat plains and beyond the
plains the city. An hour ago the old man of the house in the forest went
past my door and the little dog was not with him. It may be that as we
talked in the fog he crushed the life out of his companion. It may be
that the dog like the workman's wife and her unborn child is now dead.
The leaves of the trees that line the road before my window are falling
like rain--the yellow, red, and golden leaves fall straight down,
heavily. The rain beats them brutally down. They are denied a last
golden flash across the sky. In October leaves should be carried away,
out over the plains, in a wind. They should go dancing away.

FANUTZA[3]

By KONRAD BERCOVICI

(From _The Dial_)

Light and soft, as though the wind were blowing the dust off the silver
clouds that floated overhead, the first snow was falling over the barren
lands stretching between the Danube and the Black Sea. A lowland wind,
which had already hardened and tightened the marshes, was blowing the
snow skywards. The fine silvery dust, caught between the two air
currents, danced lustily, blown hither and thither until it took hold of
folds and rifts in the frozen land and began to form rugged white ridges
that stretched in soft silvery curves to meet other growing mountains of
snow. The lowland wind, at first a mere breeze playfully teasing the
north wind, like a child that kicks the bed-sheets before falling
asleep, increased its force and swiftness, and scattered huge mountains
of snow, but the steadily rising drone of the north wind soon mastered
the situation. Like silver grain strewn by an unseen hand the snow fell
obliquely in steady streams over the land. A great calm followed. The
long Dobrudgean winter had started. In the dim steady light, in the wake
of the great calm, travelling towards the Danube from the Black Sea, the
"marea Neagra," four gipsy wagons, each drawn by four small horses,
appeared on the frozen plains. The caravan was brought to a standstill
within sight of the slowly moving river. The canvas-covered wagons
ranged themselves, broadwise, in a straight line with the wind. Between
the wagons enough space was allowed to stabl