A Kentucky Cardinal
Dedication This to her from one who in childhood used to stand at the windows of her room and watch for the Cardinal among the snow-buried cedars. I All this New-year's Day of 1850 the sun shone cloudless but wrought no thaw. Even the landscapes of frost on the window-panes did not melt a flower, and the little trees still keep their silvery boughs arched high above the jeweled avenues. During the afternoon a lean hare limped twice across the lawn, and there was not a creature stirring to chase it. Now the night is bitter cold, with no sounds outside but the cracking of the porches as they freeze tighter. Even the north wind seems grown too numb to move. I had determined to convert its coarse, big noise into something sweet--as may often be done by a little art with the things of this life--and so
we get back to Paris--
_Fourth Schoolgirl (the one with imagination_). You idiots! You poor
kittens!
_First Schoolgirl_. If we ever do get back to Paris!
_Teacher_. (_Wearily_.) Please pay attention. This is one of the world's
most sacred spots. It is the scene of a great heroism. It is the place
where many of our fellow countrymen laid down their lives. How can you
stand on this solemn ground and chatter about hats?
_Third Schoolgirl_. Well, you see, Miss Hadley, we're fed up with solemn
grounds. You can't expect us to go into raptures at this stage over an
old ditch. And, to be serious, wouldn't some of those field flowers make
a lovely combination for hats? With the French touch, don't you know?
You'd be darling in one--so _ingenue!_
_Second Schoolgirl_. Ssh! She'll kill you. (_Three girls turn their
backs and stifle a giggle_.)
_Teacher_. Girls, you may be past your youth yourselves one day.
_First Schoolgirl_. (_Airily._) But we're well preserved so far, Miss
Hadley.
Dedication This to her from one who in childhood used to stand at the windows of her room and watch for the Cardinal among the snow-buried cedars. I All this New-year's Day of 1850 the sun shone cloudless but wrought no thaw. Even the landscapes of frost on the window-panes did not melt a flower, and the little trees still keep their silvery boughs arched high above the jeweled avenues. During the afternoon a lean hare limped twice across the lawn, and there was not a creature stirring to chase it. Now the night is bitter cold, with no sounds outside but the cracking of the porches as they freeze tighter. Even the north wind seems grown too numb to move. I had determined to convert its coarse, big noise into something sweet--as may often be done by a little art with the things of this life--and so