Sarah was looking puzzled; she took her English literature very seriously. “I don’t remember any poet saying—”
“Never you mind, Sarah mia,” Blue Bonnet laughed; she checked the mare’s pace, making her—much against her will—keep step with Sarah’s horse. “Tell me what you’re making for Christmas? I wish I could make something, too—but my stupid fingers are all thumbs, when it comes to sewing.”
Sarah responded cordially. “It would be nice for you to make something to send back in your box, Blue Bonnet; they’d like it, I’m sure.”
“Grandmother,” Blue Bonnet said, that evening, “can you crochet?”
“I used to.”
“Shoulder shawls?”
“Those among other things.”
“Please—will you show me how? I want to make one for Benita. She’d love it.”
“Have you ever crocheted, Blue Bonnet?”
“Never—Benita tried to teach me to knit once, but it wasn’t a success.”