Blue gingham petticoats,
White blown aprons,
Five pairs of plump legs
Twinkling down the hill,
Black imprisoned plump legs,
Fretful for the stream bed,
Tired of shoes and stockings,
Dancing like a rill,
Dancing down the hillside,
So come the children,
Like a rill in sunshine,
So dance they,
Seek the solemn waters,
Marching to the ocean,
Set the solemn waters
Laughing at their play.
So into my heart come,
Silver it with laughter,
Lest among the shadows
Lost should be its way,
So into my heart come
Rosamund and Daphne,
Marian and Rosemary,
And little baby May.
Claire and her companions had been paddling in the big ocean itself; and being comparatively dignified did not of course wear aprons. Moreover, as I had the strongest reasons for believing, they were at this moment quite innocent of petticoats. But the little poem comes back to me as I write.
"And next week," she proceeded ruefully, "I shall have to go into blobs and half-masters."
We stared at her rather blankly.
"All the girls do, you know," she added, "when they turn sixteen."
"But blobs——" I began.
"And half-masters?" puzzled Esther.
"When your hair's neither up nor down," Claire explained, "with a big fat bow on it. And when you have to wear skirts a foot below your knees."
She rolled over, and struck her toes into the sand.
"It's to show," she finished pathetically, "that you're too grown up to be spanked and not old enough to have visiting cards."