"--"Rocky Ford! Rocky Ford!"
Rocky Ford, home of nymphs, water-babies and Indian legend, was only
half a mile away. Again it shone in all its old-time romantic
loveliness on Missy's inward eye. And for a fact it was a good
Maytime picnic place.
That day everything about the spot seemed invested with a special
kind of beauty, the kind of beauty you feel so poignantly in stories
and pictures but seldom meet face to face in real life. The Indian
maiden became a memory you must believe in: she had loved someone
and they were parted somehow and she was turned into a swan or
something. Off on either side the creek, the woods stretched dim and
mysterious; but nearby, on the banks, the little new leaves stirred
and sparkled in the sun like green jewels; and the water dribbled
and sparkled over the flat white stones of the ford like a million
swishing diamonds; and off in the distance there were sounds which
may have been birds--or, perhaps, the legendary maiden singing; and,
farther away, somewhere, a faint clanging music which must be cow-
bells, only they had a remote heavenly quality rare in cow-bells.
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