The lurch woke her husband who pushed back his hat, shouted "Gee
Haw" at the oxen, and then said to his wife:
"You got to cut my hair, Bella. These long tags hanging down round my
ears worry me."
"Yes, dear, as soon as the weather's fine. I'll borrow a bowl from
Mrs. Peeble's mother so that it'll be cut evenly all the way round."
Here there was an interruption, a breathless, baby voice at the wheel,
and Glen leaned down and dragged up his son Bob, wet, wriggling, and
muddy. The little fellow, four years old, had on a homespun shirt and
drawers, both dripping. His hair was a wet mop, hanging in rat tails
to his eyes. Under its thatch his face, pink and smiling, was as fresh
as a dew-washed rose. Tightly gripped in a dirty paw were two wild
flowers, and it was to give these to his mother that he had come.
He staggered toward her, the wagon gave a jolt, and he fell, clasping
her knees and filling the air with the sweetness of his laughter. Then
holding to her arm and shoulder, he drew himself higher and pressed the
flowers close against her nose.
"Is it a bu'full smell?" he inquired, watching her face with eyes of
bright inquiry.
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