It was a day made for poets to sing about. A day for the young man
to forget the waiting ledger on his desk and gaze out the window at
skies so blue and deep as to invite the building of castles; for
even his father to see visions of golf-course or fishing-boat
flickering in the translucent air; for old Jeff to get out his lawn-
mower and lazily add a metallic song to the hum of the universe. And
for him or her who must sit at schoolroom desk, it was a day to
follow the processes of blackboard or printed page with the eyes but
not the mind, while the encaged spirit beat past the bars of dull
routine to wing away in the blue.
Missy, sitting near an open window of the "study room" during the
"second period," let dreamy eyes wander from the fatiguing Q. E.
D.'s of the afternoon's Geometry lesson; the ugly tan walls, the
sober array of national patriots hanging above the encircling
blackboard, the sea of heads restlessly swaying over receding rows
of desks, all faded hazily away. Her soul flitted out through the
window, and suffused itself in the bit of bright, bright blue
showing beyond the stand-pipe, in the soft, soft air that stole in
to kiss her cheek, in the elusive fragrance of young, green, growing
things, in the drowsy, drowsy sound of Mrs.
Pages:
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340