“Now,” she announced, getting up out of the drift, “I’ll show you where the church is.”
“Shall I tie your comforter again?”
“No, ’m, thanks. I’m plenty warm.” She put her mittened hand confidingly in mine and trudged along beside me.
Mrs. Dow must have heard us tramping up the snowy steps of the church, for she met us at the door. Every one had gone except the old ladies. A kerosene lamp flickered over the Sunday-school chart, with the lesson-picture of the Wise Men, and the little barrel-stove threw out a deep glow over the three white heads that bent above the baby. There the three friends sat, patting him, and smoothing his dress, and playing with his hands, which made theirs look so brown.
“You ain’t seen nothing finer in all your travels,” said Mrs. Spinny, and they all laughed.
They showed me his full chest and how strong his back was; had me feel the golden fuzz on his head, and made him look at me with his round, bright eyes. He laughed and reared himself in my arms as I took him up and held him close to me. He was so warm and tingling with life, and he had the flush of new beginnings, of the new morning and the new rose. He seemed to have come so lately from his mother’s heart! It was as if I held her youth and all her young joy. As I put my cheek down against his, he spied a pink flower in my hat, and making a gleeful sound, he lunged at it with both fists.
“Don’t let him spoil it,” murmured Mrs. Spinny. “He loves color so—like Nelly.”
Century, October 1911