That was too much for Prue. “But, Randy!” she exclaimed, “there isn’t a blossom on it. If we were princesses, Randy, I could love you just the same, couldn’t I?” questioned Prue, looking up at her sister with eager eyes.
“Of course you could,” said Randy, giving Prue a hug, who thus assured began to hum a little tune, swinging her legs to keep time with her singing. They made a pretty picture, Randy with her arm still about the little sister, Prue nestling as close as possible to Randy, and in the brook below a reflection showing the two children. Randy was looking off as if for the coming of the prince, while little Prue, becoming drowsy, laid her head against her sister.
Suddenly Prue started: “S’pose that’s the prince?” said she, as a low, merry whistle sounded through the woods. Randy looked toward the opening, then her laugh rang out. “Oh, Prue,” said she, “it’s ’Bijah Bowstock, the deacon’s hired man, going after the cows. Just look at him!” she added. And Prue looked.
Little enough like the prince in the fairy book looked he! An old straw hat upon the back of his head, a blue “jumper,” and a pair of overalls tucked into his boots, completed his costume. He did not see Randy and Prue as he passed through the woods to a path far beyond the brook, whisking off the blossoms with his switch as he went along.
“His clothes wasn’t the kind the prince wore in the picture, was they, Randy?” said Prue, when ’Bijah was out of sight. “In the picture in the fairy book they wear such long, long stockings way over their knees, and hats with feathers in them, and everything,” said Prue, intending thus to supply all the details of costume which she might possibly have omitted.
Randy made no answer. Little Prue felt as many a grown person does, that the clothes made the man; but Randy, thoughtful Randy, felt that, given all the fine raiment, ’Bijah never could have even looked the prince.
Little Prue edged her way along the plank on which they sat, and at last succeeded in slipping off from the end of the board down to the edge of the brook. There she found bits of bark which she freighted with moss, and then floated them down the tiny stream.
The little crafts, aided by a gentle push, floated out into a placid little pool just under Randy’s feet. For an instant they paused, wavered, then turning about they flew over the miniature rapids, made there by three small stones below the surface, then sailed around a bend in the brook and disappeared behind a clump of brakes growing at the foot of an alder.
Sometimes the tiny boats foundered, and the passengers were tipped out into the stream, but little Prue found other bits of bark for the boats and gaily loaded them with moss for more passengers.
“Look, Randy! Look!” screamed Prue, “there’s a fine new boat just under your feet. The gray moss is mens, and the moss with the red tops is womens. The red is their bonnets. Randy, Randy! why don’t you hear me when I’m close to you?”