"All winter, Roy."
"Poor fellow!"
"Happy fellow! I say. Why, he has done being a worm. His creeping days are over. He has only to lie snug and quiet under the ground a while; then wake and come up to the sunshine some bright morning with a new body and a pair of lovely wings to spread and fly away with."
"Why, it's like—it's like"—
"What is it like, Sammy?"
"Ain't it like folks, Miss Ruth?" Grandma sings:—
'I'll take my wings and fly away
In the morning,'
"Yes," she said; "it is like folks." Then glancing at her crutch, repeated, smiling: "In the morning."
When the woodbine in the porch had turned red, and the maples in the door-yard yellow, the flower-pots were removed to the warm cellar, and one winter evening Sammy Ray wrote Greeny's epitaph:—
"A poor green worm, here I lie;
But by-and-by
I shall fly,
Ever so high,
Into the sky."