Indian pipes and glowing
juniper berries embroidered the way; pale, late anemones, deceived
by the cold mountain weather, sprang up between the giant mushrooms.
It was as still as eternity.
The wood grew steadily thicker, the light pierced down in golden
arrows only, the silence was almost oppressive. Caroline stepped
suddenly out of the tiny path, pushed aside a clump of fern, buried
her arm up to the elbow in a hollow stump and produced a large
crumbling molasses cooky.
"Just where I left it, Henry D., just exactly!" she whispered
delightedly. "I wish now I'd left 'em both, but I didn't feel able
to spare 'em at the time."
They ate the cooky pleasantly, Henry D. receiving every third bite
with scrupulous accuracy.
"I used to think maybe that huckleberry-boy followed us up and
discovered our places, but this proves he don't," she announced, as
the last crumb disappeared; "he's not so smart as he thinks he is,
is he, Henry D.?"
They trotted on, moving more quickly as the faint, regular crash of
an axe on wood came nearer and nearer. A barbed-wire fence had
sprung up unaccountably in the wood, following a devious course
among the thick trees, and as they scrambled carefully under it,
Henry D. pausing with accustomed gallantry while his mistress
disentangled two petticoats and an unfortunate stocking, a little
gray-shingled cottage jumped out suddenly from the gray beeches, and
they emerged into its front yard.
Pages:
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135