The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1967, Page 84

82
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Summer 1967
minority group ‘by the superiority of
their art. For themselves, personally,
they won the respect and admiration
of fellow Canadians and because of
their efforts and successes the Iceland-
ers gained prestige in musical circles.
Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Olson, among
the other outstanding members of their
race, did much to help the Icelanders
attain the honored place they now
hold and will continue to hold in the
young and thriving Canadian nation
which in this year of 1967 celebrates
its first Centennial.
Waiting for Spring
by Marion Johnson
You find Mrs. Bothwell alone in her
tiny flat on the third flood, knitting
perhaps, or thumbing through the
pages of a well-worn volume, or gaz-
ing dully out a frosted glass at a dull
and frozen world. You greet her cheer-
fully, although somehow you feel a
little sad, and you inquire how she
has been and what she has been doing.
“I atm waiting for spring,” she tells
you.
In spring, there will be warm breezes
and green leaves and grasses once
again. And flowers. Mrs. Bothwell
grows lovely roses in her window-box
—pink, wellow, white, and last year a
single, blood-red blossom. In the
spring, she will show you how the dear
green buds begin peeping up at the
first tender caress of vernal sunshine.
But today, even the potted plants have
begun to pall. They seem to wither and
despair against the long, feelingless
twilights.
You are seated now with your coat
off, but held in your lap because you
must not stay long. Mrs. Bothwell is
busily preparing a cup of tea. You
wish you could help, only you don’t
know how to go about it, so you just
sit there awkwardly.
“My son sent me a letter, you know,”
she says gaily.
It is the same letter you heard about
the last time you were here. You scarce-
ly listen, although you are aware of the
steady chirp of her voice, like the last,
lonely chirp of the last robin to depart
on the southward migration.
“Perhaps he will come to visit me
this spring,” she says.
The watery sunlight is slanting
obliquely through the frosted glass
and the creeping shadows whisper their
silent warning. You hate to rush off
like this, but of course Mrs. Bothwell
can understand—so little time these
days, all you/ig people are riding a
whirlwind. “Thanks for the tea and
all.”
“In the spring.” The old lady smiles
to herself. “In the spring . . .”
As you go out, you hear the soft
click of the latch behind you.