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A Short StoryJim, the LoonBy Rosa Zagnoni MarinoniHtrY callecl him Ji,m theLoo'n, down at thedepot. No one everasked where he had come fromtown took-theit for grantecl-he was just the Loon.Jim walked with the strideof an old tar, his legs ripplingunder him in a shuffiing gait.He amhled along talking tobimself, swinging his longbaboon-like arms and noddinghis head. It was that continuousl-read nodcling that gavethe assurance he was a Loon,and the lr,.ay he clressecl helpedin conve.ving that impression.An old pair of overalls of inclefinitecolor held in place byclothespins, a tattered shirtrvith the sleeves torn out of it,fringing at the top in RobinsonCrusoe fashion, covered hisspare frame. His feet were alwaSrsbare, even in winter.Black feet the,v were, blackfrom soot ancl dust, the bigtoes slanting outward, awa\-from the lnore insignificanttoes of the f;oon's flat feet. Hewore a qlleer hat, too small forhis rvide head, a hat which atone time hacl belonged to achild ancl which Jim held inplace by means of a string thatran under his grizzleil chin.That irat helped to give himthe appearance of a monker-.Jim was ever rambling aboutthe depot, chewing cigar stubsin winter and sucking stones insummer, waiting for trains tocome crawling up the track orstaring at trains waiting onthe tracks. The conductorswaved their hands at Jim andengineers flung him jokes fromtheir cab windows. All thetrain crews along the Friscolines passing through tr'orge-Rosa Zagnoni lVlarinoni, nationallyknoun poet, fi.ctionwriter and epigrarnmatist o!Fayetter:ille, uuas recently ap.pointed 4rhansast firsttnornan poet l,aureate by theArlxansas F ed, e r ati o n olVonten's Clubs. Her thirilb_ook, ol oersee '(North otI'aughterrt' was recently ,ileasedby the 0glethorpePress. For ten years ilIrs,ilIarinoni *o" withthe State Fed,eration "oni..tecl as statechairrnan lor the ,student loanUniaersity otJyfa for ,theArkansas, but because oj herliterary uork she u"as lorcedto gioe this up a year ago. Herhusband, Prol. A. illarinoni,is the author ol ooltaly Yester,4y pubiished byIlacmillan ""q.Today," not loig ago.r.ille knew Jim the Loon-andJim would smile back at themen, then stand staring withfierce faseination at lhe steelmonsters puffing before thelittle depot. Hands deep inpockets, his head thrust forward,his mouth a big gaping)Lole, his under lip droopingtherehe r.vas leaning againstthe depot wall.-fHE newsbov of tlre "Local',r was in the hahit of tossingculls of fruit and stale sandwichesfound in the chair carand that mal have been thereason Jim waitecl so eagerl-v83for the trains. He never couldclefinitelv remember which wasthe one that brought him thecull fruit and the sandwiches.He slept in an old box carresting on the rusty track backof the canning factory. No oneconcerned lrimselI as to horv ilreIroon llr&naged to procure food.At times the man that kept thelunch room near the Junctionmade him chop wood and thengave him paper plates full ofleavings as pa-y. But J rmcould not be depended upon towork. Sometimes they gavelrim the dinner bell to ringwhen the noon train came in.And Jim would stand in theshadows of a tank and ring thebel1, swinging his powerfularms from left to right as if thebell hacl been a clapper hangingfrom them. No one sawhim srvinging the bell'but theyheard the ringing.w8l:Tiffi:l#?;l"#screaming and giggling r,vhenthev saw lrinr, as tlrough hc'were a spider. Chiidren threwstones and snow balls at him,thumbing their noses andcalled him " Crazy Loon.,,The only way Jim reacted tothis teasing was by dodging themissiles and running awayclucking his head and laughing,pretending that the youngsterswere plaf in.E a game with him.ITe l'as quite harmiess.Jim was afraid of the sherift.He was instinctively afraid ofthat big jointeil man, as a dogmight be of the dog catcher;