The phlox itself
was staggering with flowers, and all the lupin leaves held round
water-drops in the hollows of their five-fingered hands. Greg said
that they were fairy wash-basins. He also found a drowned
field-mouse and a sparrow. He was frightfully sorry about it, and
carried them around wrapped up in a warm flannel till Mother begged
him to give them a military funeral. Jerry soaked all the labels off
a cigar-box, and then burned a most beautiful inscription on the lid
with his pyrography outfit. Part of the inscription was a poem by
Greg, which went like this:
"O little sparrow,
Perhaps to-morrow
You will fly in a blue house.
And perhaps you will run
In the sun,
Little field-mouse."
Jerry didn't see what Greg meant by a "blue house," but I did, and I
think it was rather nice. I copied the poem secretly, before the
cigar-box was buried at the end of the rose-bed. I think Greg really
cried, but he had so much black mosquito netting hanging over the
brim of his best hat that I couldn't be sure.
Fourth of July came and went--the very patriotic one, when everybody
saved their fireworks-money to buy W.S.S. with. We bought W.S.S. and
made very grand fireworks out of joss-sticks. Joss-sticks have
wonderful possibilities that most people don't know about. The three
of us went down to the foot of the garden after dark and did an
exhibition for the others.
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