The poem expressed beautifully what she might have answered when
Aunt Nettie asked why she smiled. Only, even though she herself
could have expressed it so beautifully then, it was not the kind of
answer you'd dream of making to Aunt Nettie.
Thp next morning Missy awoke to find the rain gone and warm, golden
sunshine filtering through the lace curtains. She dressed herself
quickly, while the sunshine smiled and watched her toilet. After
breakfast, at the piano, her fingers found the scales tiresome. Of
themselves they wandered off into unexpected rhythms which seemed to
sing aloud: Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver
fieurs-de-lys . . . Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with
vair and purple dyes . . .
She was idly wondering what a "vair" might be when her dreams were
crashed into by mother's reproving voice: "Missy, what are you
doing? If you don't get right down to practicing, there'll be no
more parties!"
Abashed, Missy made her fingers behave, but not her heart. It was
singing a tune far out of harmony with chromatic exercises, and she
was glad her mother could not hear.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118