The Master of Phoenix Hall by Jennifer Wilde Page B

at their necks. They were accompanied by a sober-faced, middle-aged man who looked about disapprovingly. This was Greg’s associate at the school, Mr. Stephenson, and he seemed to be having a difficult time restraining the boys.
    â€œI must take them for a canoe ride,” Greg said. “I promised. Will you come along?”
    I shook my head. “You go on, Greg. I’ll wander around and amuse myself. You’ll find me near the carousel.”
    â€œYou’re sure you don’t mind?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    I watched as Greg helped herd the boys into three canoes. They were bubbling with excitement and making so much racket that Mr. Stephenson’s voice, giving stern directions, was lost in the confusion. One canoe almost tipped over. I was happy to see how delighted the boys were to be with Greg. He joked with them, and they seemed to find him a jolly companion.
    I strolled on up to the main area. There were countless booths, all of them offering various wares. One could buy hot bread, pies, sausages, ribbons, lace, fine carved wood. There were pens of squealing pigs and coops of chickens. A lonely old woman in black sat before gilt cages of green and yellow parakeets. A man with a flushed face sold smoked fish yelling of their excellent quality to all who passed by his stall. There was a faded orange and pink striped tent where an old gypsy woman in blue scarves and tarnished gold beads was telling fortunes. Three tired, forlorn looking donkeys were tied outside the tent, their backs laden with carpets and old pots and pans. Nan had rushed directly to this tent, a protesting Billy Johnson dragging along with her.
    People yelled greetings, small children darted underfoot, delighting in their day of freedom. But the young men and women of Lockwood dominated the scene. The strong country lads in their best homespun shirts stood together in loud groups, slapping one another on the back and laughing as they eyed the girls, healthy, husky creatures who reminded me of a group of overgrown schoolboys. They seemed to be bursting with energy, eager for the Maypole dance when the girls would choose their partners. By some mutual agreement the boys and girls stayed apart now, sizing each other up and waiting for the dance, when pandemonium would break out. The girls laughed coyly and flitted past the males, swishing their skirts and tossing flaxen blonde curls. They were as eager as the men, longing to feel those strong arms about their waists and to cavort off to secluded spots. The air was electric with all these ready-to-burst emotions.
    I purchased a glass of lemonade and found a seat beneath an oak tree. The limbs spread layers of thick purple shade over the grass, the boughs hanging low. It was cool here, and not nearly so noisy as it was a little distance away from the main activity. I could sit here and wait for Greg and watch the bright interplay of color without being a part of it. I watched the carousel as it whirled around, the painted horses bobbing up and down with flushed children holding the reins. Two large Maypoles stood on a brightly green lawn, their long colored ribbons entwined with flowers. Each girl would take a ribbon and dance as the boys darted, in and out, the girls wrapping their ribbon around the boy they favored. A huge wooden dance floor was set up nearby. Colored lanterns would be put up at dusk and musicians would play as the couples danced.
    I was tired already. We had been here since noon and I had helped Greg with the boys. They were like a pack of noisy puppies, delightful to be with for a while but draining energy. Greg had bought them lollipops and lemonade, much to the disapproval of Mr. Stephenson, and we had taken them to inspect all the booths. I was glad that I could beg off the canoe ride and sit here alone for a little while. I had tried to do as the villagers and put aside all cares, but I could not shake off the intense anger and alarm I had felt upon