Smoke Follows Beauty Lucy Spence

Smoke Follows Beauty

Lucy Spence

“Smoke follows beauty,” Mother said, watching Cynthia batting at the smoke. An old pine board cracked on the campfire and sent a spray of orange sparks into the cool night sky. The children’s skin glowed with warmth and their rubber-soled shoes grew soft, propped upon the rocks. Tomorrow, they would smell smoke on their pillows, carried home on their hair and clothes.

Cynthia was having fun, in spite of the smoke. Her bent coat-hanger, with the gooey marshmallow at the end suddenly burst into flame.

“Oh, no!” she yelled, swatting the sweet torch through the air. She blew hard on the marshmallow, then stared disappointedly at its black crust. She walked out of the smoke and over to a table where she smashed the crusty marshmallow between two graham crackers and a piece of Hershey’s chocolate bar.

“Let’s sing a song.” said Cynthia’s mother.

“What should we sing?” little Emily asked.

“I’ll teach you a song that all my friends used to sing when we were teen-agers. Then we can sing it in parts.

                “Down by the old—

                                Not the new, but the old. (Mother changed her voice for the echo effect).

                Mill stream—

                                Not the river, but the stream.

                Where I first—

                                Not second, but first.

                Met you—

                                Not me, but you.

                With your eyes—

                                Not your ears, but your eyes.

                So blue—

                                Not green, but blue.

                It was then—

                                Not now, but then.

                I knew—

                                Not guessed, but knew.

                That I loved—

                                Not hated, but loved.

                You true—

                                Not false, but true.

Down by the old—

                Not the new, but the old

Mill stream—

                Not the ri—ver, but- the- stre--eam.

Cynthia’s mother finished off with a flourish while they all giggled at the silly love song.

 “Now I’ll start off, and  you all sing the silly parts.”

Cynthia and her little sister Emily, her brother Doug,  and their gang of friends joined into the singing with laughs and shouts. The sky grew darker and the stars began twinkling above. Mrs. Urton’s head popped over the fence.

“Candy, com on home now.”

“Aw, Mama!” Candy and the rest of the gang slowly and reluctantly left the campfire and dawdled home. And the smoke followed each of them all the way through their front doors and into their beds.