With glad songs and starry glances.”
“If I was a girl—and had a doll—I’d never let her get up alone at Moon-dawn and go out and wash her face in those great big dew-drops with cream on ’em. Why—she might get drownded! I wouldn’t call her Christine Braibry, anyway—” Joey delivered himself of this ultimatum quite in his usual manner. And feeling somewhat relieved I inquired:
“What name would you choose, boy—Wanza or—”
“Not Wanza—no girl’s name! I wouldn’t have a girl-doll! I’d fix it up in pants and call it Mr. David.”
After supper that evening I asked Wanza to come to the workshop with Joey and me. She gave me a laughing glance as I held open the kitchen door for her, and stood teetering in indecision at the sink with Joey clinging to her skirt.
“There are the dishes to be washed, and Mrs. Batterly’s tea to be carried to her, and the milk pans to scald, and—”
“Wanza,” Joey cried, “you must come! It’s a surprise.”
She danced across the room, tossed her apron on to a chair, and rolled down her sleeves. Her eyes glowed suddenly black with excitement, her red lips quirked at the corners. She tossed her head, and all her snarled mop of hair writhed and undulated about her spirited face. She sprang outside with the lightness of a kitten followed by Joey, and I closed the door carefully at Mrs. Olds’ instigation, and followed her to the yew path.
The heavy-blossomed service bushes hedged the path like a flowered wall, silver shadows lay around us, but through the fretwork of tree branches we saw a mauve twilight settling down over the valley. The river was a twisting purple cord. In the violet sky a half-lit crescent moon was swimming like a fairy canoe afloat on a mythical sea. All objects were soft to the sight—thin and shadowy. The spike-like leaves above our heads glistened ghostily, the trunks of trees bulked like curling ominous shapes in the vista before us. Puffs of wind caused the maples to make faint, pattering under-breaths of sound.
We stood on the miniature bridge for a moment. The reeds were shooting up in the bed of the spring; and as we stood on the bridge they were almost waist high about us. A tule wren flew from among them, perched on a nearby cottonwood, and gave a series of short wild notes for our edification. It flirted about on its perch, with many a bob and twitch as we watched it, apparently scolding at us for daring to approach so close to its habitat.