Toil and Trouble

Griselda, the witch who lives in the Memorial Hall bell tower, stretched her arms after a long sleep and decided it was time for a trial spin on her broomstick to get in shape for Halloween. Skirting Lowell House, a chance breeze blew her into an open window. As she recovered her balance, a distraught young man leaped to his feet, hastily brushing la little pile of dirt under the rug with his hand.

"O, Katie," he sobbed, throwing himself upon the startled Griselda, "you've come back. Life's been miserable all year. They won't even give us brooms or." He broke off, abashed, as he got a better look at the witch. "Excuse me, Madame," he blurted with a polite little bow, "you look just like the maid we had last year, and I thought maybe well, they have endowments for ice-cream and other things, I though that just maybe." He broke down again, and went back to brushing the rug with his hand. Here and there a tear splattered the mock-Persian design.

Being a particularly empathetic witch, Griselda sank into a blue study, clashing perhaps with the room's green decor, but infinitely in harmony with the young man's misery.

"Why doesn't the College do something about this?" she asked.

"I don't know," was the reply. "I suppose that all the money for maids is now tied up in PBH or something, but they could at least buy us brooms, they don't cost much." He held up his grimy hands to her. "My fingers are worn to the nub from trying to get things clean. You know, the mechanical sweepers are all right, but they only come around once a week."

He slumped down and started dusting the phonograph with the nub of a finger or two. Griselda sighed and went over to the door.

"Well, goodbye," she said, "I hope everything works out for you." She flashed a wan smile of encouragement, then tenderly, as the slipped out the door, she placed her broomstick in the corner. "You need it more than I do."