Flora watched them as they hopped from twig to twig, and wished she
could borrow their brown wings, for she wanted to fly away over the tops
of the houses and sing with them a joyful song. But she could not borrow
the brown wings, and she could not turn herself into a bird. So she sat
down on the upper step which the sun had dried, and tried to feel
satisfied with the nimble feet and curious fingers that God had given to
her instead of wings and claws.
The steam was rising from the ground, and the bright drops sparkled on
the tender blades of grass. When the last bright drop had disappeared,
and there was no longer any steam, she was at liberty to go where she
pleased. She felt very comfortable in her thick jacket and leather
boots, for it was as yet too early in the season to lay them by, but if
she could have had her own way, she would have welcomed the pleasant
morning in ankle-ties and a shaker.
"Mamma knows best," she whispered to Dinah, the black baby, with blue
buttons for eyes and ravelled-out yarn for hair. "Mamma knows best, and
I hope you are 'vinced of it."
The sun had gone away from the step, and Flora was somewhat chilly, so
she pinned the shawl tightly about Dinah and walked up and down the
porch. "You don't know everything," she said, sharply, "because you
ain't old enough. And I ain't. Did you think I was? No. I will tell you
who is. Mamma is. She is ever so old, and she knows all there is in the
world. When she tells me to put on my warm jacket, I don't cry.
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