'llie Sliawnee Si{fwuette
Sliawnu State 'University, Portsmouth., Ohio 'ninter 1991
The Shawnee Silhouette is published quarterly by the editorial staff at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio. Subscriptions are available for $2.00 a copy or $5.00 a year. The three issues will be published during Fall, Winter, and Spring Quarters. Submissions are invited in the areas of prose, poetry, art, and photography.
Cover photo by Val Nesler
Printed by Shawnee State University Print Shop, Kenneth Powell, Director
All rights revert back to authors upon publication.
Copyright, January 1991 ISSN No. 1047 - 2401
'The
Sfiawnee State 'University Sufunutte
'Wi.nter, 1991 'J/o{. 'VI, 9{p. 2
'Editorial Staff
!I{. C. Mason, poetry editor
'IameCa Carmicfiae{ and
Peter J. 'Dunn, fiction editors
Janet & 'llaCerie !J{f,s{er, pliotograpfiy editors
Lou & Sandy (ji{{enwater, art editors
!RJ,6ert 'Wifson, adviser
'1ne Sliawnee Silfwuette is a quarter{y pu6Cicatwn com.mi.tea to perpetuating ant£ cefe6rating forms of artistic ei(]'ression. '1ne 6asic purpose of tft.is journal is to pu6Cisf,, orioinal wo,{ana to provitfe an outfet for practicing artisans, wit/,, and witliout name ruoamtwn. '1ne pu6Cicatwn is intenaea to encourage 6eginners and to cefe6rate '1ne Jtrts in Jtppalacliia ant£ 6eyoruf. '1ne eaitoria£ staff is commi.ttea to work.ing witF,, contri6utors, to improve tnt quauty of tneir Work,
'Direct al[ comsponaence to:
'1ne Sliawnee Silfwuette
Sliawnee State 'University 940 SecondStreet 1004 !House - - 1wom # 5 Portsmoutf,,, Omo 45662
of Contents
Guest Editorial
Each year I receive dozens of letters similar in theme to this one from Don McIntyre of Reseda, California: "I have written (attempts at) poetry since I was very young, but always had the vague conviction that it was good poetry since I had never studied the craft. Around the middle of last year, I decided that poetry--both that which I was reading and that which seemed to be formulating within--was complelling enough to deserve serious pursuit I began with three basic texts, John Ciardi's How Does a Poem Mean?, Laurence Perrine's Sound and Sense, and your own Poet's Handbook. From there I have gone on to further study, including you column in Writer's Digest.
"Recently I allowed myself to become convinced that some of what I had writtem was worth submitting, and I purchased the 1990 Poet's Market. I also got a subscription to the American Poetry Review. Here comes the climax of my story as it reads so far. I was shocked-somewhat discouraged--to discover that the poetics consistently described by Ciardi, Perrine, and yourself (not to mention Pope, Poe, Frost, etc. ) seems to have gone the way of the dinosaurs and been replaced by nothing but undisciplined free verse. That is, rhyme and regular rhythms appear to be largely unwelcome in most markets. And when they do get attention, the verse is often bad bad bad .
He cites as a sample of such bad verse with poem by one of the editors featured as a close-up in Poet's Market. It is easy to prove that much rhymed and metrical verse published today is bad. He might have cited any number of the sample lines of "traditional" verse in Poet's Market that editors or I have selected as representing what various publishers publish. When I choose or print such samples, I always hope that readers can read between the lines: that they have enough judgment not to send their own work to magazines that .publish trite and simple-minded verse, no matter how traditional.
And he touches a sensitive spot in me. I recently gave a workshop in Tampa titled "Commercial Wriring and Literary Art." Since the audience was large, and they had many alternative workshops available at the same hour, and since I knew that most people who come to writers' conferences have dollar-marks spinning on their eyeballs, I invited those who hoped to succeed in writing to try one of the other workshops. "I can only teach you how to fail," I said. I haven't a clue as to how to write commercially viable poetry except to advise you to go out and be Jimmy Stewart. His poems were best-
sellers last winter. He made money on poetry, and he didn't need the money. "Know someone," I advised: "Know editors, publishers. Have connections. Live a scandalous or at least famous life. Write popular novels first. Then your name might sell your poetry--either to editors or the book-buying public." And Stop Bellyaching
When this topic comes up at workshops, there are inevitably a bunch of comments to the effect that somehow the public is at fault. They watch too much TV. They don't read.
Nonsense! I told them in Tampa. Everyday I communicate with a wide range of writers who earn good money by writing for that public. We participate in Litforum, a part of Compuserve, an International electronic communication network (which anyone can join). In Litforum, such writers let their hair down, chatting informally in a continuous chain of messages that create a kind of cocktail party atmosphere, without alcohol, at all hours of the day or night- about everything from how to get a pill down a cat's throat to the current aversion of school kids to lunchboxes to how to get an agent and how to write on scenes from several parts of a novel at a time. A recent long string of messages was on torture devices, to help an author fill in patches of her historical novel. Another concerned medieval agriculture. Some strings are on computer aids to writers.
Anyway, it is clear that however addicted to TV they may be, millions of Americans are avid readers. Especially the romance novelists, science fiction novelists, and mystery writers have large and loyal followings. People line up in the bookstores to get their signatures and buy their books. That doesn't happen to us poets.
"But," protested a woman from the back of the Tampa crowd, "those books are simplistic .... "
Again, "Nonsense." Judith McNaught, a Litforum regular, recently saw one of her novels, Almost Heaven, soar to first place on the paperback fiction lists of the New York Times and B. Dalton bookstore chain. I don't often read romances, but I read that one, and found it amazingly subtle, surprisingly funny, and highly sophisticated. The hundreds of thousands of people who bought that book, read it, and enjojed it, could be reading my poetry, perhaps with as much interest I just don't know how to reach them. The public might like the poetry, but editors are in the way, and publishers, neither of which would risk bringing out a paperback of poetry for the mass market. They wouldn't know how to market it to a public convinced that poetry is unreadable or dull or precious stuff for intellectuals. The blame is on poets for writing so much that is unreadable or dull or precious stuff for

intellectuals. The only thing we can do as poets is to try to write the kind of poetry that people who buy and read bestsellers would be likely to buy.
Convincing Editors
But I want to return to Don McIntyre's letter. "Did I miss something along the liner he asks me. "As I was studying, I was excitedly writing poems that used the techniques I was learning-speeding up or slowing down pace, echoing meaning with sound, using end rhyme because it forced me to express myself in an unusual way, etc., only to discover that such devices are passe'. Most of the entries in Poet's Market seem to specify free verse. Additionally, I purchased The Best American Poetry: 1989 (edited by Donald Hall and David Lehman, Collier Books), and this confirmed the matter."
Oh, easily, Don. I open that book at random and happen on an example by one of our best and best-known poets, Mary Oliver, "Some Questions You Might Ask." Here are the opening lines: Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Who has it, and who doesn"t?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad as the face of Jesus.
And so on for more questions, a total of fourteen more lines. The poem is perfectly clear. It has some interesting bits in it about nature (snakes and scallops have one lung). But there is no music, no form, and little that is memorable. For better or worse, most people stop asking about what the shape or material of the soul is in about the tenth grade. And I doubt that the readers of Almost Heaven would like to read a whole bookful of such rambling, aimless speculations rendered in shapeless (albeit lucid) lines. Why would anyone want to read such a book? Editors, apparently, love such poetry. It's top of the heap. The Atlantic or The New Yorker would snap it up in a minute. If you want to learn how to write poetry, read such poets as Mary Oliver, and do likewise. If you want to reach an audience, write romances.
- Judson Jerome Contributing Editor, Writer's PiGSt
FLOWERING SPLENDOR
DORIS OSBORNE
SPB.IHG
Isn't the same since the cherry tree died.
Dawn Zapletal Millbrae, CA
1941
The next instant the beauty of the night was lit up by a falling flare. As I watched it slowly descend, the nearby walls of tall buildings appeared stark, naked, and lonely. The deserted street seemed to be waiting. The far-off wail of a siren rose--then fell. The air raid was ending, the drone of retreating aircraft fading, except for a faint sound high overhead.
As the flare drifted downward, a small shadow emerged from a dark opening and ran swiftly across the street. Moments later, a tiny hand crept into mine-seeking safety. A very young face with wide, staring eyes gazed solemnly into mine. Twelve--no more--she stood silently beside me, not speaking, watching the flare touch the pavement, sputter a while, then go out. Her hand tightened in mine, her thin body pressing closer.
"Why?" she asked. I could not answer. But in that one word rested all the unanswered questions of the world.
The scream of a falling bomb grew louder, landing nearby We began to walk along the deserted street, her tiny hand resting safely in mine--unafraid.
As I looked back, I saw two crumpled forms lying close together in the rubble of the ruins
Leonard Middleton Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
ICY MISTRESS
He remembers.
She W26 exactly what she was and always stayed that way, whispering of tomorrows, speaking of yesterdays.
SheW26 everything he made of her:
silence of notdeath, warmth of coldsun days, coolsteam cones of warm breath and muffled tones, crunch black holes of crystal crusts melting to her neverblack as he, mufflered beast assaulting white piled mounds, walked alone along untrodden paths with face upturned to taste her cream lace flakes upon his tongue.
A11 these and more she had to be because of him, lover, who, fearful of the loss of his seductress in life's death sleep, awoke glazed by desire, returned to her white joy.
r-.bw only clustered words of snow remain: now his icy mistress's love w111 never stay.
John A. Roynesda l West simsbury, CT
RIA URRRIOR
The sea belo• Is beautiful. It ls placid today, so and serene. Such st 111 ness Is a contradiction of reality, for the •orld, despite appearances to the contrary, Is a turbulent ent lty, Life does not revo Ive around a I ove of It y, but around a need for survival, and this dictates act ions that are bred in efficiency and not In co11passlon.
If this •ere not the essence of existence, then 11ould be •Ith I •ould be sitting In 11y house, basking In the joy of interact ion. Instead, I a thousand 11y loved ones, preparing to supply a great •orld conflict •Ith but one 11ore tiny and place are never really a of choice. They are beyond the real11 of 11ortal selection, resulting fro11 an uncont ro I I ab I e pattern of events, and s•eeping us to an Inescapable destiny,
Fate a•aits in t11enty les, If the reported sightings and course head I ngs •ere correct. I have not seen the rest of •Y squadron since the cloud bank, so I •i I I attack alone and trust that they arrive. at It at such a lo• altitude, and alone, 11lght bring upon the target before •Y presence is realized, and after It can be stopped, For this act against the I proud, They are a foe bent on the destruction of a free not I on. But for •Y ly, I becaiae •I I I bring the• sadness,
My reflects their visions, The round, face of •Y •lfe ls centered In a bordered by of our children. Each figure Is of countless 11e11ories that span the ful I of Ion, a congregat I on of the good and bad, but a I I equa 11 y precious to no•. I •I 11 these people very They have been •y life or, accurately, •e have been everyt h Ing to each other, I do not •ant
to die and thus leave thea, but I aust, Their protect Ion Is vita I, and •Y alsslon •I 11 serve that cause, Surely, good fortune •Ill follow the•
until we are reunited In death,
The pictures of love drift slowly fro• •Y daydreaa, and concentration returns. A sllght course correction la needed, so •Y hands and legs co11plete the routine task alaost absent-aindedly. I 011 close now, very close, The objective should be coalng into view any second now, A quick glance at the instruaent panel verifies that all Is In order, and •y eyes return to the vast horizon.
I strain to locate the quarry, and, then, there it is. This convoy is the deaonlc war aachlne of a ruthless antagonist. The ships appear to be a series of spark I Ing glares as the sun strikes the st ee I hu I I of each vesse I, caus Ing the• to I ook 11 ke yel lo• stars In a deep blue sky. I have stalked the adversary and found it.
It Is tiae to gain altitude, so I use the brilliant aornlng sun to caaouflage the to attack level, I have indeed surprised this aodern ar•ada, and the pr i •e target is as expect ed--an enor11ous carrier, snuggly encircled by a host of escorts,
Ito•, I have been seen, and bursts of flak erupt al I around, vlclously jarring •Y plane, It Is too late for the• though, barring a airaculous, lucky hit. My dive has started, and three-thousandpound bu 11 et streaks do•n•ard, ou·r co 11 Is I on • i I I occur at the base of her superstructure, and the exp I os Ives I carry • i I I create a spect acu I ar end Ing for both of us,
Once again, destiny has won out. I can see 11ar Ines and sa I I ors scurry Ing on the deck as I relentlessly bear down on In th~ rushing nearness, I can even read the naae of •y target,
conflr11lng that I have done 11y Job wel I. Today, the USS York t o•n •II I be at ung by at I eaat one p I ane fro• the Hlryu.
There la left for one last thought of 11y fa11 I I y. Good. The Ir i have returned. The faces are 11uch clearer now, and they are speaking to 11e. I can hear what they are a.
A. D. Uanderburg
CRUERT
When obstln11cy Is mlst11ten for persplc11clty 11nd br11sslness Is reg11rded 11s Independence, you wlll foolishly Judge your gentle l11dy submlsslue 11nd le11p with fury 11nd II feeling of betr11y11I when you dlscouer her serenity Is born of 11 self-confidence 11nd sense of purpose thllt Is lmpregn11ble to m11nlpul11tlon.
Lynn Mccraw Fort Ord, CR
TONSORIAL
I was supposed to be somewhere and had forgotten to shave. Stupid, but one forgets things sometimes. I can't remember even being aware of my destination though I knew my presence there was essential. It would come to me.
As I walked, figuring I must be going the right way, I saw the striped pole. It looked quaint and charming, like something out of Norman Rockwell. No styling salons or unisex nonsense here, just hot towels and humorously vigorous denunciations of politicians and the Cubs. Self-consciously stroking my stubbly chin, I quickened my pace. The sidewalk was crowded, and everybody seemed to be at pains not to notice how unkempt I was. I felt like stopping people so I could explain myself.
Inside, there were two barber chairs, and the usual calendars and advertisements were tacked to the wall. Tonics and powders were lined up on the shelf below the wall-to-wall mirror at the back. On the little table in the comer, there were the usual magazines: Field and Stream, Sports Illustrated, True Detective. There were even hair trimmings in little circles at the bases of the barber chairs. Everything was just as it should have been except.
Except that the place was full of Arabs. At first, I thought that they had all just put on the aprons, or whatever you call the things the barber covers you with, and sat down to wait their turns, which would have been strange enough. But no, they were in traditional costume, with the long robes and the headgear, too. They sat without speaking, absorbed in the secrets of successful bass fishing and the hitting techniques of Don Mattingly and Wade Boggs.
"Hot day; I said, taking a chair next to a fellow who looked like Arafat He had to be there for a shave, I thought.
He said something I didn't understand and held open his magazine. The title of the story was in Arabic, which I found, without surprise, I cou.ld translate: "The Busty Barmaid Took the Wrong Customer Home." There was a picture of an overweight young woman stripped to her underwear. Behjnd her, a man with greasy hair and tattoos was brandishing alarge kitchen knife. Ismiled and nodded at the Arab.
"Next,· called the barber, drawing out the syllable in a singsong wail like a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. I began to rummage through the magazines,
knowing I was in for a long wait, but somehow I was next.
The barber, who was also in a robe, shook out an apron and grinned at me. "What'II it be today, buddy?"
"A shave."
"What?" "A shave."
"You're kidding." "No."
"What makes you think you can get a shave here?"
"Well--this is a barber shop."
"No, it's not·
"It's not?"
"No."
"Then what is It?"
•A Berber shop."
I was embarrassed at having come to the wrong place. The Arabs were snickering at me.
"It sure looks like a barber shop."
"Nevertheless."
I found myself back on the sidewalk, rushing toward my destination, whatever it was. Now there wouldni be time to stop for ashave even if I found the right place. I could only hope that when I arrived, whoever was there wouldni notice.
Jim Kerbaugh Jacksonville,
IL
KNOWLEDGE
Into the softness of my book I climb where I am safe untouched
on velvet pages I make my home far from the human race there is nothing I want for through the power of words I quench my thirst and fill my mind when it is time to rest I sleep in the knowledge that I am fulfilled from chapter to chapter I leap to another time and back again around the world and across the skies safe in the knowledge that I am fulfilled
Staten Island, NY
JudyOrtado
DESPERATELY SEEKING
GWEN FASSINGER
WHAT WOULD IT MEAN?
We read great poets' works and idolize their words. Our thoughts hinge on their daily lives and how they spent their time when not with pen. Who were the privileged ones that knew them? Lived next door? Did others recognize them as great bards, or were they merely thought of as our average men? The Good Book states a prophet has no honor 1n his town, and, sad to say, while he still lives. It seems that death does something for a soul who knew no glory 1n his day. We visit homes a,nd graves of those we hold 1n great esteem and try to visualize what it would mean to talk with them who were our unseen kin.
Paul Salyers Olive Hill, KY
'Eye to eye, unezyectealy, I grasp tfu air, perfume.a 6y your presence; tfu swaffowetl tfiro6 surfaces, ffasfies [ikJ [iglitning 6etween us, sparf(,.ing tlie umg-6an~tlfire . ..
1'or one split secontl it 6urns 6efore tlie 6iUowingsmo~screen of pretention--aUowing an ezy!otling fuart to /fee.
'lJ.P. Lu6en Prescott, .9lZ
SANDY
AFTERRAIN
I spend my sleep fetal positioned, rhythmically, yet unconsciously keeping time with the liquid laving gently my opaque womb. As my eyes birth to sun, I enter an alien world-green explodes everywhere. As my eyes grow into awareness: firs emerald, grasses jade, all dewed with afterrain.
Fr. Benedict Auer, O.S.B. Lacey, WA
MOOSE FEATHERS
'Wha'cha mean you a1n' never heard of moose feathers, son? How long you been in Alaska, anyway? You Cheechakoos 're all the same. When'd you git up here?"
The old man settled back in his rocking chair as he dug into his jacket pocket, clawing for his tobacco pouch with his right hand. With his left hand, he tapped his pipe empty in the ashtray on the eagle's claw-leg table beside him, then blew it clear. With a powerful left thumb, he Jammed the pipe bowl full, then lit the top of the tobacco with a sulfur-coated match which he struck with his right thumbnail.
'Well, let's see. Back in, oh, thirty-five, thirty-six, we had one hellacious winter. Cold? Cold, you ask? Let me tell you, it was cold. It was so cold that it froze the flag over the courthouse so stiff we used it to chop wood for the rest of the winter. No foolin'I If the dogs didn't eat fast enough, they'd freeze at their dishes. an' ff they sneezed, they'd lose their noses. Was it cold? You'd better believe it was cold!
'Why, it was so cold it froze the eggs solidi An' I mean solid. There was no way we could keep the chicken coops warm, so them hens just sat in thefrnests tryin' to keep warm an' hold in their eggs 'cause it got real cold sittin' on frozen eggs.
"At first we thought we could eat the eggs, but as soon's we thawed one out, we realized we couldn't. They were rawfroze, an' as soon as we'd thaw one of 'em out, it'd start to rot an' smell terrible. Well, we didn' want them eggs around come spring, so's we gathered 'em all up an' lugged 'em over to the far side of Bullion Mountain so when spring came, all that bad smell would blow over onto the other side of the mounta1n.
'1 think everything would'a been all right 'cept for the moose. See, that valley there, on the other side of Talkeetna
Pass, is prime grazin' land. I mean, it was the best grazin' land in the whole state. Even in the winter. The moose knew it too and they always wintered in the valley, eatin' the tender nubs of the trees and bushes that shoved up outa the snowcover.
Well, them moose came a stumblin' into that meadow there an' started graztn' along until they came upon them eggs, all stacked like rocks at a playground fight. The moose weren't too smart; fact none of 'em are that smart. Fact is, if they 'ad one less brain cell, they'd be a rock. They started browsin' around, like I said, an' when they found them eggs, they thought they was giant ice cubes; so they swallowed 'em down. See, moose get their winter water outa snow an' ice. An' yuh get a heckofalot more water outa ice than snow, so them moose Just gobbled them eggs down whole.
'Well, now, we din' care that much, 'cause we figured that them eggs wouldn't hurt the moose none an' if it got rid of 'em for us, that was fine and dandy. We wouldn't have to wony about no smell come spring, but danged if six weeks later one of the boys didn' come in an' tells us this story 'bout this moose he'd seen up in Badger Meadows with wings! Well, we din' believe him a'tall 'till three days later when one of the hunters bring in this moose with wings. Iain' foolin'! It had wings like a chicken. Well, we plucked him good an' ate him an', wouldn't you know, that moose tasted just like a chicken. Just like a chicken! In fact, it tasted so good, we went to harvest them moose-chickens, an' when we dropped through Talkeetna Pass, you know what we seen? Sixteen moose with wings an' feathers! Swear we did! An' we shot 'em all. An' we ate 'em all! We sure did! Yes, we did! An' that was the last of the winged moose I ever seen 'cause we never put them eggs out again. No sir!
"An' you know what we did 'bout them moose feathers? Why, we put 'em 1n that quilt you two young'uns are lyin' under. That's right! That's where them moose feathers are right now! An' if you're real good an' go to sleep quick, tomorrow night I'll tell you 'bout Thumbless George and the three-legged wolf of Dulbi Flats."
-Steven C. Levi Anchorage, AK
STEVEN
Today, I gave my son a glimpse of my pain. I told him goodbye. And turning my back to his departure, then turning to see he was not watching me, watching him.
I told him to go play without me and al one he marched off to war (camouflaged in laughter); he would learn what my cradle arms and whispers could not teach him.
Playgrounds have revolutions too.
Luc1 nda Mason Denver, CO
URINALS BUILT FOR PYGMIES
Input.
Output.
Annual convention breaks lead to altars of caffeine.
We take communion, then kneel in prayer behind closed doors for flushing where urinals installed for pygmies are our only choice.
Either poets stand too tall or plumbers too short, but never in public restroom have I had to stoop so low to dispose of liquid gold.
Something sanctimonious about the rite that made it seem anything but right to have to poise myself so low to dispose of something present, passed.
Harding Stedler Wheelersburg, OH
MEMORIES OF HOME
PR.ESER.VES
Foi- me
my mom put u.p a. d:ozen jcns o I &ta.c~&eny ja.m
i,n .:tu.gust, ju.st &ef oi-e a.n opei-a.tt.on to f1.ei- F1.ea.i-t.
Now tf1.e ja.m
i,s gone a.nd: my mom t.s d:ot.ng welt &u.t •.•
nevei- d:t.d: sF,.e sa.y sF,.e Coved: me.
1, mu.st aUow F,.eito consu.mma.te me
F1.ei- wa.y. 'JF,.e ja.m
Joi- now wi.ll d:o.
J. W. Ca.u.9fl.ti.n
Qu.esnet, B .C. , Ca.na.d:a.
'JKE 1'01.CE Of' --'.NBELS
1, wi.tness ghosts of hea.ven where whea.t f i.elc:ts gentc.y roU; 1, hea.r the vot.ce of a.ngets t.n the va.Uey.
Pi.tgrt.ms mu.st beti..eve i.n the promi.se of Joha.nna.;
1, a.m bound: to see~ a. ri.ver to wa.sh my body cf.ea.n.
Tom Bremer DeCawa.re, OK
HANK
Always a common man, Hank lipped simple yet wisdom-filled messages.
Being a dirt-farmer, he kept his hands in dirt but his mind was clean and lofted to treetop heights. giving advice and helping others .
.Annually, he thanked God for another year's keeping of family and friends. He sang praises for small blessings granted and loudly exalted the fact that God had let death come no closer than his barn.
Paul Salyers Olive Hill, KY
MIDNIGHT DANCING
Unearthly prisms radiate off streetlampssickly yellow etherizes air, olive greens polluted space, grays shadow until black. A wind whistles cautiously through the night, trying not to be afraid of its own darkness, yet softly swaying streetlamps in a macabre dance keeping time to a swaggering drunk unknowingly headed homebound. The dance continues late into the night-partners change, many solo, the streetlights alone remain pulsating erotically tuned with the invisible midnight breath.
Fr. Benedict Auer, O.S.B. Lacey, WA
WINTER DAYDREAH
I know the shepini maple does not miss it. falhn haves, nor does the bass slow broodina in the dark December deeps reiret the ice which keeps it from the sky, Niiht pines not for sunrise nor does sun for moon and stars; no winter waits the comini of the 1prina. And you whom I have loved do not miss me at all. I am frost to your thaw. dusk to your dawn.
D ••i4 R. H ofhtt Pine City. H N
I'J{J)'UC'Tl09{_
S~ saluted wi.tli a wondrous gasp 9-fantfs dasped titJfit across ~r breasts 51s g{itfd 6y wi.tufows 'Dressed in spf:entfed ve{vet b{ac.k._ ~d ant!goU epaulets intleub{y impressed 'Upon ~r virgin sigfit 9-fer mi.ntf now open to pay tribute 'Io virtius of his fj.ntf.
Patricia Afc9(,ee 'Watervi{{e, Af'F.