The breeze had freshened a little, and he tucked her knitted scarf about her shoulders with a care not altogether fatherly.
“Thank you, Bob White. You’re very kind.”
“Who wouldn’t be kind to you, Betty? Look there! Over the top of the hill. Even the stars are peeping out to see if you’re comfortable.”
She gave her little crowing laugh. “What a poet! I always think of Emerson’s verse about the stars. Do you remember it?
“Over our heads are the maple buds,
And over the maple buds is the moon;
And over the moon are the starry studs
That drop from the angel’s shoon.”
“Where did you learn Emerson?”
“I had a teacher who liked him.”