Winter 1963 • Vol. XXV No. 1 Fiction |

Charity

It was one of those last days of autumn, an unseasonably warm, bright day, and she took her book out into the garden, partly for the sunshine and partly to escape the telephone which had been intruding at intervals as regular and as insistent as labor pains. It was the season of appeals, the time after the summer hiatus and before the Christmas money-sapping days, the fund-raising season. Every misfortune seemed to have its organization and every organization its insistent voice. Still, how say no to orphans, to the indigent aged, to disabled veterans? Yes, she said. Yes to heart, to cancer, to arthritis, to muscular dystrophy. Yes to polio, nephritis, nephrosis, nepotism and impotism. Yes indeedy to the Community Chest, the Hospital Fund, the Red Cross, the White Feather, the Four Horsemen. Yes and yes again to Catholics and Jews, Negroes and Lutherans, Hibernians, nuns, and the Salvation Army. She pulled a chaise into a position beneath the partly leaf-stripped oaks where

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Herb

By Stephen Minot

It was one of those last days of autumn, an unseasonably warm, bright day, and she took her book out into the garden, partly for the sunshine and partly to […]

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