And she gave no hint of that breaking dawn
until one day early in May, when she heard a woodthrush for the
first time with Hale: for it was the bird she loved best, and
always its silver fluting would stop her in her tracks and send
her into dreamland. Hale had just broken a crimson flower from its
stem and held it out to her.
"Here's another of the 'wan ones,' June. Do you know what that
is?"
"Hit's"--she paused for correction with her lips drawn severely in
for precision--"IT'S a mountain poppy. Pap says it kills
goslings"--her eyes danced, for she was in a merry mood that day,
and she put both hands behind her--"if you air any kin to a goose,
you better drap it."
"That's a good one," laughed Hale, "but it's so lovely I'll take
the risk. I won't drop it."
"Drop it," caught June with a quick upward look, and then to fix
the word in her memory she repeated--"drop it, drop it, DROP it!"
"Got it now, June?"
"Uh-huh."
It was then that a woodthrush voiced the crowning joy of spring,
and with slowly filling eyes she asked its name.
"That bird," she said slowly and with a breaking voice, "sung just
that-a-way the mornin' my sister died.
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