It was a riotous sort of day. The wind went rampaging about Central Park, and the sun laughed down upon the gay confusion of tossing branches, just beginning to grow green. In sheltered spots traces of snow still lingered, but it was melting very fast. The ground was soft, the iron thrall of winter was loosed.
It was not quite the sort of Sunday that Miss Mackellar could approve of. The wind disarranged her hair, and the promise of spring troubled her spirit. Her feet hurt, too. She sat down upon a bench and buttoned her voluminous plaid coat tightly about her, and, as the young child whose governess she was ran around and around the bench, she said “Woo!” each time the child appeared before her.
She did this with all the fervor she could command, for she was fond of the little girl, and she was a conscientious woman; but she knew that she failed. The child[Pg 249] was generously giving her every chance to be entertaining while sitting still, and she was not being entertaining. Before long she would be obliged to rise and limp off in quest of ducks and squirrels, who could do better.
“Woo!” she said once more.
“What is it ’at says ‘Woo’?” asked the child. “Bears?”
“Yes, pet—bears. Big, brown, woolly bears.”
“Do bears run after you?”
“No, pet. They sit in their dark, dark caves and say ‘Woo.’”
“I don’t like bears,” said the child flatly.
Miss Mackellar could think of no other retort than a fresh “Woo,” but it was not accepted.