She said that everything had
colour in her thought; the months of the year ran through all the
tints of the spectrum, the days of the week were arrayed as
Solomon in his glory, morning was golden, noon orange, evening
crystal blue, and night violet. Every idea came to her mind robed
in its own especial hue. Perhaps that was why her voice and words
had such a charm, conveying to the listeners' perception such fine
shadings of meaning and tint and music.
"Well, let's go and have something to eat," suggested Dan. "What
colour is eating, Sara?"
"Golden brown, just the colour of a molasses cooky," laughed the
Story Girl.
We sat on the ferny bank of the pool and ate of the generous
basket Aunt Janet had provided, with appetites sharpened by the
keen spring air and our wilderness rovings. Felicity had made
some very nice sandwiches of ham which we all appreciated except
Dan, who declared he didn't like things minced up and dug out of
the basket a chunk of boiled pork which he proceeded to saw up
with a jack-knife and devour with gusto.
"I told ma to put this in for me. There's some CHEW to it," he
said.
"You are not a bit refined," commented Felicity.
"Not a morsel, my love," grinned Dan.
"You make me think of a story I heard Uncle Roger telling about
Cousin Annetta King," said the Story Girl.
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