You fold your sorrow from his happy eyes—
(You always said they should have been a girl’s.)
Half of his Eden sunlight buried lies
Amid the meshes of those baby curls.
BROWN BETTY
By Grace S. Richmond
It’s all right, Joe,” said Miss Farnsworth, rapidly drawing on a pair of heavy white gloves. “You needn’t be in the least afraid to trust me with the colts. And the station agent can find somebody to help him load the wagon for me.”
She sprang in and took her seat at the front of the big farm wagon—a most unusual and dainty figure there, in her crisp white linen. She gathered the reins deftly, said gayly to the people on the farmhouse porch: “When I come back I’ll show you unpatriotic persons how to keep Fourth of July in the country,” and would have driven off with a flourish but for one unforeseen and effective hindrance. Joe remained stolidly at the heads of the two restless black colts.