Junebells have another and more scientific name, of course. But
who could desire a better name than Junebells? They are so perfect
in their way that they seem to epitomize the very scent and charm
of the forest, as if the old wood's daintiest thoughts had
materialized in blossom; and not all the roses by Bendameer's
stream are as fragrant as a shallow sheet of Junebells under the
boughs of fir.
There were fireflies abroad that night, too, increasing the
gramarye of it. There is certainly something a little
supernatural about fireflies. Nobody pretends to understand them.
They are akin to the tribes of fairy, survivals of the elder time
when the woods and hills swarmed with the little green folk. It
is still very easy to believe in fairies when you see those goblin
lanterns glimmering among the fir tassels.
"Isn't it beautiful?" said the Story Girl in rapture. "I wouldn't
have missed it for anything. I'm glad I left my necklace. And I
am glad you are with me, Bev. The others wouldn't understand so
well. I like you because I don't have to talk to you all the
time. It's so nice to walk with someone you don't have to talk
to. Here is the graveyard. Are you frightened to pass it, Bev?"
"No, I don't think I'm frightened," I answered slowly, "but I have
a queer feeling.
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