She had just
graduated from the local high school ("Oh! oh!" thought Missy) and,
already prodded by ambition, persuaded the editor of the weekly
paper to give her a job. . ."
Once again Missy's eyes wandered dreamily out over the yard. . .
Presently a voice was wafted out from the sideporch:
"Missy!--oh, Missy! Where are you?"
There was mother calling--bother! Missy picked up the Ladies' Home
Messenger and trudged back to bondage.
"What in the world do you mean, Missy? You could write your name all
over the parlour furniture for dust! And then those stockings--"
Missy dutifully set about her tasks. Yet, ah! it certainly is hard
to dust and darn while one's soul is seething within one, straining
to fly out on some really high enterprise of life. However one can,
if one's soul strains hard enough, dust and dream; darn and dream.
Especially if one has a helpful lilt, rhythmic to dust-cloth's
stroke or needle's swing, throbbing like a strain of music through
one's head:
Cosmos--Cosmos!--Cosmos--Cosmos!
Missy was absent-eyed at the midday dinner, but no sooner was the
meal over before she feverishly attacked the darning-basket again.
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