CHAPTER VIII.
THE STORY OF A LITTLE SPARK.
“I WONDER what kind of a story we shall have to-night,” said Max, as they sat on the door-step waiting for August to appear.
Thekla, who had been ironing, looked very pale and complained of a headache. The day had been hot; no cool wind had come with evening to refresh them; the leaves hung motionless. Far, far away the tinkle of a bell was audible, from some animal astray in the Forest.
“I don’t recollect much about August,” said Thekla, languidly. “Was she pretty?”
“I don’t either,” answered Max. “There was such a confusion that night the Months came, that I got them all mixed up in my mind. I think, though, she wasn’t a she: she was a man.”
“For only think what that woman had on her hands: ... she hitched the horse, ... snatched up her babies, and a poor old man who lived with them.”
“Oh, no!” cried Thekla, “August never could be a man, Max. What are you talking about? I remember now: she was sweet and brown, and held a sheaf of wheat in her hand.”
“No,” persisted Max: “that was September or October,—I forget which. Depend upon it, August will turn out to be a gentleman.”