Summer 1968 • Vol. XXX No. 3 FictionJanuary 1, 1968 |

Lambs of God

Everything was coming to life, Helene said. Did the girls see how green the willows were? She pointed to a watery fissure between mounded fields. If Leonard wouldn't drive so fast—she looked sidelong past little George to her husband—they would all enjoy the scenery more. She lowered her sewing to her knees and winced as the car plunged down a hill and dipped up to the next rise. It wasn't even pleasant driving that way, she said. Why was he in such a hurry? Why couldn't he just relax and enjoy the trip? They were only going down to the farm, after all. Sixty was a good speed, he said. Didn't she want to get there before dark? Not if it meant making everyone sick and missing all the spring sights besides. The new lambs were out, and the baby pigs, she said. It was important for the children to see all that. There, look. Had they missed it? They had passed a pungent-smelling barnyard turned to choppy brown sea by the footprints of animals. In the muck had been sows weighted down

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