One morning Missy awoke to a dawn of mildest sifted light and
bediamonded dew upon the grass; soft plumes of silver, through the
mist, seemed to trim the vines of the summerhouse and made her catch
her breath in ecstasy. All of a sudden she wanted nothing so much as
to get a book and steal off alone somewhere. The right kind of a
book, of course--something sort of strange and sad that would make
your strange, sad feelings mount up and up inside you till you could
almost die of your beautiful sorrow.
As soon as her routine of duties was finished she gained permission
to go to the Library. As she walked slowly, musingly, down Maple
Avenue, her emotions were fallow ground for every touch of Nature:
the slick greensward of all the lawns, glistening under the torrid
azure of the great arched sky, made walking along the shady sidewalk
inexpressibly sweet; the many-hued flowers in all the flowerbeds
seemed to sing out their vying colours; the strong hard wind passed
almost visible fingers through the thick, rustling mane of the
trees. Oh, she hoped she would find the right kind of book!
Mother, back on the porch, looked up from her sewing to watch the
disappearing figure, and smiled.
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