Her eyes were quicker than his, too, and now she pointed to a
snowy blossom with a deeply lobed leaf.
"Whut's that?"
"Bloodroot," said Hale, and he scratched the stem and forth issued
scarlet drops. "The Indians used to put it on their faces and
tomahawks"--she knew that word and nodded--"and I used to make red
ink of it when I was a little boy."
"No!" said June. With the next look she found a tiny bunch of
fuzzy hepaticas.
"Liver-leaf."
"Whut's liver?"
Hale, looking at her glowing face and eyes and her perfect little
body, imagined that she would never know unless told that she had
one, and so he waved one hand vaguely at his chest:
"It's an organ--and that herb is supposed to be good for it."
"Organ? Whut's that?"
"Oh, something inside of you."
June made the same gesture that Hale had.
"Me?"
"Yes," and then helplessly, "but not there exactly."
June's eyes had caught something else now and she ran for it:
"Oh! Oh!" It was a bunch of delicate anemones of intermediate
shades between white and red-yellow, pink and purple-blue.
"Those are anemones."
"A-nem-o-nes," repeated June.
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