THE GOLDEN BIRD
"I hate him for being what he is and treating
me this way, but I love him still more," I
confided to Mrs. Ewe as I gave her an extra
handful of wheat out of the blouse-pocket
which I kept filled for Mr. G. Bird from
pure partiality.
  Uncle Cradd did not bring a letter from
the post-office for me. The blow in the
apple orchard and the purple plumes on the
lilac bushes looked less brilliant in hue, but
the tune on my heartstrings kept up a note
of pure bravado. I weeded the garden all
afternoon, but stopped early, fed early, and
went up-stairs to my room before the last
sunset glow had faded off the dormer win-
dows. Opening my old mahogany chest, I
took out a bundle I had made up the day
after the advent of Mother Cow and the calf,
spread it out on the bed, and looked it over.
  In it was an incredible amount of lingerie,
made of crepe de chine and lace, folded
tightly and tied with a ribbon into a package
not over a foot square. A comb and a brush
of old ivory, which had set in its back a small
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