"Wind-flowers--because the wind is supposed to open them." And,
almost unconsciously, Hale lapsed into a quotation:
"'And where a tear has dropped, a wind-flower blows.'"
"Whut's that?" said June quickly.
"That's poetry."
"Whut's po-e-try?" Hale threw up both hands.
"I don't know, but I'll read you some--some day."
By that time she was gurgling with delight over a bunch of spring
beauties that came up, root, stalk and all, when she reached for
them.
"Well, ain't they purty?" While they lay in her hand and she
looked, the rose-veined petals began to close, the leaves to droop
and the stem got limp.
"Ah-h!" crooned June. "I won't pull up no more o' THEM."
'"These little dream-flowers found in the spring.' More poetry,
June."
A little later he heard her repeating that line to herself. It was
an easy step to poetry from flowers, and evidently June was
groping for it.
A few days later the service-berry swung out white stars on the
low hill-sides, but Hale could tell her nothing that she did not
know about the "sarvice-berry." Soon, the dogwood swept in snowy
gusts along the mountains, and from a bank of it one morning a
red-bird flamed and sang: "What cheer! What cheer! What cheer!"
And like its scarlet coat the red-bud had burst into bloom.
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