I . . . 



DUNE PARK 



WE are hungry for sand and we are 

 watching the weather. When the rain 

 storm has passed and the north winds 

 are blowing at its back, there will come our 

 glorious blue days, and then we are going 

 to Dune Park. We must wear our shortest 

 skirts and our highest boots, and take a trav- 

 eler's lunch, light, but satisfying and plentiful, 

 for we start at six and return at eight. And 

 we must have the company of good friends, for it 

 is to be a day in a complete wilderness. 



At Dune Park the train sets us down among 

 box cars, loaded from the dunes themselves, for 

 even they are marketable. The station keeper's 

 gaze follows us wonderingly as we move off through 

 the woods toward the steep lee slopes of sun-burned 

 sand. Chicago's youthful spirit of hurry is with us 

 yet, and we pant upward. But on reaching the top 



