The June
grass, the friendly, humble, companionable grass, that no one
ever praises as they do the flowers, was a rich emerald green, a
velvet carpet fit for the feet of the angels themselves. And the
elms and maples! Was there ever such a year for richness of
foliage? And the sky, was it ever so blue or so clear, so far
away, or so completely like heaven, as you looked at its
reflection in the glassy surface of the river?
"Yes, it's a pretty good day," allowed Uncle Bart judicially as
he took a squint at his T-square. "I don' know's I should want to
start out an' try to beat it! The Lord can make a good many kinds
o' weather in the course of a year, but when He puts his mind on
to it, an' kind o' gives Himself a free hand, He can turn out a
June morning that must make the Devil sick to his stomach with
envy! All the same, Waity, my cow ain't behavin' herself any
better'n usual. She's been rampagin' since sun-up. I've seen
mother chasin' her out o' Mis' Day's garden-patch twice
a'ready!--It seems real good an' homey to see you settin' there
sewin' while I'm workin' at the bench. Cephas is down to the
store, so I s'pose your father's off somewheres?"
Perhaps the June grass was a little greener, the buttercups
yellower, the foliage more lacey, the sky bluer, because Deacon
Baxter had taken his luncheon in a pail under the wagon seat, and
departed on an unwilling journey to Moderation, his object being
to press the collection of some accounts too long overdue.
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