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Jill thought it was an advertising stunt put on by one of the local bike shops, while Bud Troxell suspected a leak from the nuclear power plant six miles away. Daphne Lagos was sure she could trace it back to the arrival of a young lesbian couple in her cul-de-sac, a certain moral decline that appeared to be coming to a swollen, pus-filled head.

Now let me say that we prided ourselves on being a friendly neighborhood. We held a block party each year and gave each other yard-care advice. We shared babysitters, tools, and even extra produce. But Alexa had stepped over the line.

Despite our best efforts there were more dogs than ever, on stripped-down messenger bikes, lowriders, and hybrids with bulky panniers, bikes with banana seats and faded Baltimore Colts stickers, commuters with an all-chrome finish, each customized to fit the size and shape of its rider.

As a first step, the neighborhood tot-lot was condemned, the swings pulled down and a watchtower built in their place. We took turns counting ride-bys, recording them in a logbook with time of day, weather, and lunar phase.

What she saw was a boy and a girl emerging from a tree house. They were not quite naked, but not quite dressed either. They climbed down the tree and appeared to arrange blankets over some rocks, but those were not rocks at all! They were the sides of 17 sleeping dogs.

The parents loved the boy and the girl, so they confined them to their rooms while others of us burned down the woods, treehouse and all. It was unclear if any dogs were consumed by the flames, because the next day there were just as many circling the neighborhood.

Ever since he joined the patrol, Scott Casey had been consumed by a certain erotic fantasy, in which he narrowly saved his wife from an attack by the cycling dogs. He thought about her thankfulness in the shower, on his commute, and even between tall boxes in the furniture-store warehouse, which had a negative impact on his sales.

He was sitting up there one afternoon, his AR-15 set and ready, when the thought of his wife under attack came over him again, causing his eyes to water and his hands to shake. At 1615 hours, in the northeast quadrant of the neighborhood, he spotted what appeared to be a gang of dogs pedaling straight toward a long figure lying on the pavement. This was what he was waiting for. He would not stand by. He would not. He would not.

Much to our relief, the girl survived after a week and a half in the hospital, but Scott Casey spent most of his time afterward in the fetal position, with a pillow tucked between his knees. His wife took his place on the watchtower, though he begged her not to.

The annual block party was cancelled. Our mail sat in our boxes, while leaves fell and collected on our lawns. But we managed. We diagnosed our own illnesses, grew our own food, taught our own kids. It was difficult work, but we knew what we had to do.

Feeling sorry for the boy and growing fatigued with the day-to-day reality of homeschooling, his parents finally decided to allow him back on his computer. He earned his high school degree online in half the usual time and began to apply to colleges.

None of us could say when the dogs began to disappear either, though later, some claimed to notice a certain slump in their withers, an air of sheepishness about the act of bike-riding. Maybe so and maybe not. Our eyes played tricks on all of us in those days. And then, after so long a drought, came the torrents of rain and wind which kept even the stalwarts off the watchtower.

She was sitting now where she had sat for thirty years. Her high-backed rocker, with its cushion of copperplate patch and its crocheted tidy, stood always by a southern window that looked out on the river. The river was a sheet of crystal, as it poured over the dam; a rushing, roaring torrent of foaming white, as it swept under the bridge and fought its way between the rocky cliffs beyond, sweeping swirling, eddying, in its narrow channel, pulsing restlessly into the ragged fissures of its shores, and leaping with a tempestuous roar into the Witches' Eel-pot, a deep wooded gorge cleft in the very heart of the granite bank.

All the men in both villages were working on the river, strengthening the dam, bracing the bridge, and breaking the jams of logs; and with the parting of the boom, the snapping of the bridge timbers, the crashing of the logs against the rocks, and the shouts of the river-drivers, the little Lucinda had come into the world. Some one had gone for the father, and had found him on the river, where he had been since day-break, drenched with the storm, blown fro his dangerous footing time after time, but still battling with the great heaped-up masses of logs, wrenching them from one another's grasp, and sending them down the swollen stream.

Finally the jam broke; and a cheer of triumph burst from the excited men, as the logs, freed from their bondage, swept down the raging flood, on and ever on in joyous liberty, faster and faster, till they encountered some new obstacle, when they heaped themselves together again, like puppets of Fate, and were beaten by the waves into another helpless surrender.

With the breaking of the jam, one dead monarch of the forest leaped into the air as if it had been shot from a cannon's mouth, and lodged between two jutting peaks of rock high on the river bank. Presently another log was dashed against it, but rolled off and hurried down the stream; then another, and still another; but no force seemed enough to drive the giant from its intrenched position.

There was quite a gathering of neighbors at the Bascoms' on this particular July afternoon. No invitations had been sent out, and none were needed. A common excitement had made it vital that people should drop in somewhere, and speculate about certain interesting matters well known to be going on in the community, but going on in such an underhand and secretive fashion that it well-nigh destroyed one's faith in human nature.

The sitting-room door was open into the entry, so that whatever breeze there was might come in, and an unusual glimpse of the new foreroom rug was afforded the spectators. Everything was as neat as wax, for Diadema was a housekeeper of the type fast passing away. The great coal stove was enveloped in its usual summer wrapper of purple calico, which, tied neatly about its ebony neck and portly waist, gave it the appearance of a buxom colored lady presiding over the assembly. The kerosene lamps stood in a row on the high, narrow mantelpiece, each chimney protected from the flies by a brown paper bag inverted over its head. Two plaster Samuels praying under the pink mosquito netting adorned the ends of the shelf. There were screens at all the windows, and Diadema fidgeted nervously when a visitor came in the mosquito netting door, for fear a fly should sneak in with her.

The old man hung his hat on the back of the chair, took the pan in his trembling hands, and began aimlessly to open the pods, while he chuckled at the hens that gathered round the doorstep when they heard the peas rattling in the pan.

An exciting interview soon took place in the middle of the road, and Almira reentered the room with the expression of one who had penetrated the inscrutable and solved the riddle of the Sphinx. She had been vouch-safed one of those gleams of light in darkness which almost dazzle the beholder.

The next morning, little Mote Hobson, who had stayed all night with his uncle in Union, was walking home by the side of the river. He strolled along, the happy, tousle-headed, barefooted youngster, eyes one moment on the trees in the hope of squirrels and birds'-nests, the next on the ground in search of the first blueberries. As he stooped to pick up a bit of shining quartz to add to the collection in his ragged trousers' pockets he glanced across the river, and at that very instant Lucinda's log broke gently in twain, rolled down the bank, crumbling as it went, and, dropping in like a tired child, was carried peacefully along on the river's breast.

Grandpa Bascom was standing at the top of the hill. His white locks were uncovered, and he was in his shirt-sleeves. Baby Jot, as usual, held fast by his shaking hand, for they loved each other, these two. The cruel stroke of the sun that had blurred the old man's brain had spared a blessed something in him that won the healing love of children.

Mote looked in at the window. The neighbors were hurrying to and fro. Diadema sat with her calico apron up to her face, sobbing; and for the first morning in thirty years, old Mrs. Bascom's high-backed rocker was empty, and there was no one sitting in the village watch-tower.

The sky is a shadowless blue; the noon-day sun glows fiercely; a cloud of dust rises from the burning road whenever the hot breeze stirs the air, or whenever a farm wagon creaks along, its wheels sinking into the deep sand.

The first goldenrod gleams among the loose stones at the foot of the alder bushes. Whole families of pale butterflies, just out of their long sleep, perch on the brilliant stalks and tilter up and down in the sunshine.

The song of birds is seldom heard, and the blueberry plains are given over to silence save for the buzzing of gorged flies, the humming of bees, and the chirping of crickets that stir the drowsy air when the summer begins to wane.

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