It is light so early
now. That gives one so many hours. In winter one has so few one must lie
in bed, because to buy a candle you know one cannot afford except, of
course, a taper now and then, as one's duty is, for our Lady or for the
dead. And will you really, really, lend me books?"
"Really, I will. Yes. I will bring you one to the Grande Place
to-morrow, or meet you on your road there with it. Do you know what
poetry is, Bebee?"
"No."
"But your flowers talk to you?"
"Ah! always. But then no one else hears them ever but me; and so no one
else ever believes."
"Well, poets are folks who hear the flowers talk as you do, and the
trees, and the seas, and the beasts, and even the stones; but no one
else ever hears these things, and so, when the poets write them out, the
rest of the world say, 'That is very fine, no doubt, but only good for
dreamers; it will bake no bread.' I will give you some poetry; for I
think you care more about dreams than about bread."
"I do not know," said Bebee; and she did not know, for her dreams, like
her youth, and her innocence, and her simplicity, and her strength, were
all unconscious of themselves, as such things must be to be pure and true
at all.
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