The
little crosses were to be found only in a certain valley in
Virginia, so perfect in shape that they seemed to have been
chiselled by hand, and they were a great mystery to the men who
knew all about rocks--the geologists.
"The ge-ol-o-gists," repeated June.
These men said there was no crystallization--nothing like them,
amended Hale--elsewhere in the world, and that just as crosses
were of different shapes--Roman, Maltese and St. Andrew's--so,
too, these crosses were found in all these different shapes. And
the myth--the story--was that this little valley was once
inhabited by fairies--June's eyes lighted, for it was a fairy
story after all--and that when a strange messenger brought them
the news of Christ's crucifixion, they wept, and their tears, as
they fell to the ground, were turned into tiny crosses of stone.
Even the Indians had some queer feeling about them, and for a
long, long time people who found them had used them as charms to
bring good luck and ward off harm.
"And that's for you," he said, "because you've been such a good
little girl and have studied so hard. School's most over now and I
reckon you'll be right glad to get home again.
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