“Yes,” and then helplessly, “but not there exactly.”
June's eyes had caught something else now and she ran for it:
“Oh! Oh!” It was a bunch of delicate anemones of intermediate shades between white and red-yellow, pink and purple-blue.
“Those are anemones.”
“A-nem-o-nes,” repeated June.
“Wind-flowers—because the wind is supposed to open them.” And, almost unconsciously, Hale lapsed into a quotation:
“'And where a tear has dropped, a wind-flower blows.'”
“Whut's that?” said June quickly.
“That's poetry.”
“Whut's po-e-try?” Hale threw up both hands.