It is sad, but true, that many people will
not believe in things they cannot see and
touch. And because they do not believe,
they can never see and must spend their
lives in a semi-darkness unilluminated by
the sparkling, dancing creatures who are
the perpetual delight of children. Some
grown-ups can see them, but few, very
few. These incredulous, unbelieving peo-
ple laugh at the mention of the Never-
Never Land, simply because they cannot
see it and cannot go there. Perhaps most
of these people have never been to London,
either. Are they svre there is such a place?
This is a simple story, and it actually hap-
pened this way. Believe it or not, as you
will.

this is an extremely personal nar-

trative and you'll be seeing a lot of
the first person singular from now on.
It’s extremely personal because it con-
cerns only me, Gwa O'Rourke and
some of his pals.

Most writers, when they’re con-
fronted with the problem of telling
of events in a vague limbo-land where
men are seldom permitted to travel,
can fall back on those convenient arti-
fices of the trade and begin their sto-
ries, ‘‘I fell into a deep troubled sleep
in which wind sounds and night and
strange forms were all inextricably
mixed, and when I awoke—.”’

I’m afraid I can’t handle Gwa
O’Rourke that way, because the first
time I saw him he was working hard
in the cold light of a normal day in a
place far removed from fantasy and
hazy dreams—I saw him in our re-
search laboratories in St. Louis on one
busy afternoon while chemists were
busily engaged in cracking apart an-
other tough problem. Gwa was ener-
getically ladling acid out of a beaker
and dumping it into another beaker,
thereby effectively ruining an impor-
tant experiment.

Now, I want it understood that I
believe in leprechauns and pixies and
elves and fairies, both good and bad,
ot I never would have seen Gwa that
day. No one else saw him. And except
for the fact that Gwa had a slight ac-
cident just then I never would have
known him. Little people can be just
as stupid and clumsy as we, and,

T THE first place, let me warn you—

16

9) ae

The Story of the Ageless Elves that

Haunt the Chemical Industry

knowing this, I was not too surprised
when Gwa leaned over the edge of the
acid beaker to see how much more
acid he could ladle out, and slipped.
His feet went up and his head went
down and he hung precariously over
the edge of the beaker, unable to fall
either in or out and helpless to move
although he worked frantically with
his hands and feet against the slick-
ness of the glass walls. His benzene
ring middle held him on one side,
while his jack-knifed spindly legs
held him on the other, and his round
bottom agitated from side to side in
his panic. Even chemlins don’t like to
bathe in acid.

I plucked him off his glassy perch,
put him in my pocket and retired to
my office to examine my find. I put
him down on the desk pad and he sat
down heavily, clutching his stomach
and breathing heavily. When he had
recovered, he looked at me, got to his
feet, and walked to the edge of the
desk. He looked over, shivered at the
sight of the drop before him, and
walked to the other side. There was
no way off, so he resignedly settled
down behind my books to wait for
something to happen. I whistled softly
and his head popped out from behind
the dictionary, then popped back
again.

“Hey, you!’’ I called, ‘“‘you behind
that book! I can see you, you know, so
come on out and let’s have a look at

by Johnny Keen

you.’’ With my thumb and forefinger
I pinched his jacket and pulled him
out. That convinced him and he be-
came formal and dignified. He removed
his cap and bowed as gracefully as his
generous mid-section would permit.

“Sikronik,’’ he said, “‘fir mutsim
copignatom gihuit dif, Gwa O’Rourke
kilamerd li.’” He bowed again and
replaced his cap.

‘“Gormanig gif,’’ I replied, “‘hirtufid
mi lert gasthutiss, le Johnny Keen
firsignen.”’

We stared at each other in astonish-
ment. I had understood him, and,
what’s more, had replied well enough
for him to understand me. He had
said, literally, “‘Bare-head-to-you, to
me is acid killing stuff from which you
kindly took, Gwa O’Rourke now be-
comes sun-to-plant.’’ I had replied,
‘““Water-to-mist, high is low, broad is
wide, from Johnny Keen goes thank-
fulness.’” He had greeted me, then
thanked me for saving his life and
pledged his friendship and eternal
service, and I had replied, ‘‘Forget it,
pal, it’s all the same to me, glad to do
itany time...

From then on, we were friends, and
for the next few weeks Gwa traveled
with me and initiated me in the fine
art of chemlinology. He told me an-
cient stories, for his people are as old
as the world, and we spent many long
hours together just talking of many
things. When we went on the road he

MONSANTO