Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 50 — page 96: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ONE HOUR GEORGE C. DUNCAN HE SUN picked the busy flight of a fly from the dusky shadows of the classroom. The chestnut tree outside the open window waved sleepily to the fresh wind of spring. The cones of blossoms dancing gracefully so that they peeped into the lives of the children and the teacher inside. The tree stretched high beside the school, almost to the clock tower, which showed three o’clock on a warm and sleepy afternoon. The village which clustered round was quiet. It seemed as though the unusual warmth had made it closer in on itself than usual. It crouched low as though waiting for the time to pass. The red roofs were in- clined in crazy jumbles of patterns known only to the pigeons which rested or crooned upon the slates. Three tenuous voices rose 95 in a song in the classroom and the old teacher who sat at the desk waved a ruler in time to the young voices. It was not a beautiful melody, but the earn- est efforts of the two small girls and the freckle-faced boy gave it a sweetness which maybe the song had never possessed before. The singers sat down with solemn dig- nity, and maybe because it was a special occasion they did not look out to the freedom of the outside or even to the horse chestnut flower cones. Papa Jones, their teacher, was not the type of man one would expect children to love. People said he was doddery. He knew they said that about him and inside himself he was hurt, but did not show it. He had been in the world war which had something to do with his grey hair, and the grey moustache which helped to cover the prematurely aged comiclbooks.corn