Everybody looked as you three went down the shady street together, and the nice young ladies gave you smiles and the nice old ladies gave you flowers, handing them out to you over their garden walls.
"Thank you. My name is Harry," you said.
"And I'm Lizbeth," said little sister. And as you passed on your stride grew longer and your voice sank bigger and deeper in your throat, like Father's.
But it wasn't the town you liked best to walk in with Father in the long, warm Sunday afternoons. It was the river-side, where the willows drooped over the running waters, and the grass was deepest and greenest and waved in the sun. On the meadow-bank at the water's silver edge you sat down together.
"Who can hear the most?" asked Father.
You listened.
"I hear the river running over the log," you said, softly.
"And the birds," whispered Lizbeth.
"And the wind in the willows," said Father.
"And the cow-bells tinkling way, way off," you added, breathlessly.