THE SETTLING OF THE SHADOW
The bruised crocuses never again lifted their heads in Kennedy Square.
With the settling of the shadow--a shadow black with hate--men forgot
the perfume of flowers, the rest and cool of shady nooks, the kindling
touch of warm hands, and stood apart with eyes askance; women shuddered
and grew pale, and sad-faced children peered out through closed blinds.
Within the Square itself, along paths that had once echoed to the tread
of slippered feet, armed sentries paced, their sharp challenges
breaking the stillness of the night. Outside its wrecked fences strange
men in stranger uniforms strode in and out of the joyless houses; tired
pickets stacked their arias on the unswept piazzas, and panting horses
nibbled the bark from the withered trees; rank weeds choked the
gardens; dishevelled vines clung to the porches, and doors that had
always swung wide to the gentle tap of loving fingers were opened
timidly to the blow of the sword-hilt.
Kennedy Square became a tradition.
Some civilizations die slowly. This one was shattered in a day by a
paving-stone in the hands of a thug.