Abstract
At the Jeweler's In the mountain village rain falls softly on clay and rock and grass on silver rail and roof. In this shop on the one main street the jeweler tells me funny stories to distract me, even though he stutters and does not often perform, He is assaulting with his file the gold wedding band that has grown into the flesh of my fingers for twenty-seven years. The circle is finally broken, I say aloud, "The divorce is at hand." The jeweler smiles at my word play and folds the ring into a plain brown envelope on which is written my own expendable name. —Alice Cabaniss Bass 61 ...
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