“Those are the Acmon, girl. See the orange-red band on the hind wings. Look closely. The Dotted Blue have a dusky purplish band.”
“Of course. I don’t seem to learn very fast. But I’m getting to know the birds, and I do know heaps about the wild flowers. I never saw such big daisies as I saw to-day in the meadow back of our house—I don’t suppose you call them daisies—and a yellow-throat has a nest among ’em. Yes! Oh, the meadow looks like a snow field! I been watching the daisies—they close up at night, tight.”
“And they open with the dawn. Daisies are not very common in the west. I must have a look at your snow field.”
Wanza’s luxuriant hair of richest maize color was spread out in sheeny wealth over the pillow of pine needles on which her head rested. I reached out negligently and separated a long curl from its fellows. “How silky and fine it is,” I commented. Wanza lay motionless. “It would be wonderful—washed,” I murmured, half to myself.
Wanza kicked another pine cone into the river.
“Plenty of soap and a thorough rinsing,” I continued musingly.
“Let it alone,” Wanza commanded crossly, her light brows coming together over stormy eyes.
“I can’t,” I said teasingly. “My fingers are rough, and it clings.”
Wanza sat up quickly, cried “Ouch!” and the next instant I received a stinging slap on the cheek. I caught her by the elbows, got to my feet, and pulled her up beside me.
“I think I won’t recommend you to the lady who has bought Russell’s old ranch, after all,” I taunted. “She wouldn’t want a virago.”