Spring 1944 • Vol. VI No. 2 FictionApril 1, 1944 |

When It Thundered

On those formidable spikes of the cast iron fence a man had once speared himself. That was before the fence had been painted vermilion, and had been dark green. The red blood had trickled down three of those green spikes. The man had been drunk or he would not have been walking there atop that fence, the boy knew. Taunting God, as the Zuid Holland minister had said. And so he had died. Now Father was standing there just beyond the fence, looking through the bars at him, as he was standing there beside the dead frog, lying belly-side up, very dead. Already thunder was crowding everywhere, closer, and that was one of the reasons he had to remain close to the frog, so that it seemed very irrelevant for his Father to say: "I would not stray far afield, David; I'm afraid we are in for something terrible." It was wholly unnecessary, considering the boy's constant terror for thunder, yet his father added: "You understand, don't you?" Desperately he then called his father's attention to

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