Chris, having read, made customary cheerful comment according to her limitations.
“’T is just like essterday—butivul grawing weather, but ’pears to me it’s plain facts more ’n poetry. Anybody could come to the streamside and see it all for themselves.”
“Many are far away, pent in bricks and mortar, yearning deep to see the dance of the Spring, and chained out of sight of it. This might bring one glimpse to them.”
“An’ so it might, if you sold it for a bit of money. Then it could be printed out for ’em like t’other was.”
“You don’t understand—you won’t understand—even you.”
“I caan’t please ’e to-day. I likes the li’l verses ever so. You do make such things seem butivul to my ear—an’ so true as a photograph.”
Clem shivered and stretched his hand for the paper. Then, in a moment, he had torn it into twenty pieces and sent the fragments afloat.
“There! Let her take them to the sea with her. She understands. Maybe she’ll find a cool corner for me too before many days are passed.”
Chris began to feel her patience failing.
“What, in God’s name, have I done to ’e you should treat me like this?” she asked, with fire in her eyes.