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XIII. A Golden Picnic
onthesteepbankofagurglingbrookwherewhitebirchesshotupoutoflongfeatherygrasses.ThegirlssatdownbytherootsanddidfulljusticetoAnne’sdainties,eventheunpoeticalsandwichesbeinggreatlyappreciatedbyhearty,unspoiledappetitessharpenedbyallthefreshairandexercisetheyhadenjoyed.Annehadbroughtglassesandlemonadeforherguests,butforherownpartdrankcoldbrookwaterfromacupfashionedoutofbirchbark.Thecupleaked,andthewatertastedofearth,asbrookwaterisapttodoinspring;butAnnethoughtitmoreappropriatetotheoccasionthanlemonade.
“Lookdoyouseethatpoem?”shesaidsuddenly,pointing.
“Where?”JaneandDianastared,asifexpectingtoseeRunicrhymesonthebirchtrees.
“There...downinthebrook...thatoldgreen,mossylogwiththewaterflowingoveritinthosesmoothripplesthatlookasifthey’dbeencombed,andthatsingleshaftofsunshinefallingrightathwartit,fardownintothepool.Oh,it’sthemostbeautifulpoemIeversaw.”
“Ishouldrathercallitapicture,”saidJane.“Apoemislinesandverses.”
“Ohdearme,no.”Anneshookherheadwithitsfluffywildcherrycoronalpositively.“ThelinesandversesareonlytheoutwardgarmentsofthepoemandarenomorereallyitthanyourrufflesandflouncesareYOU,Jane.Therealpoemisthesoulwithinthem...andthatbeautifulbitisthesoulofanunwrittenpoem.Itisnoteverydayoneseesasoul...evenofapoem.”
“Iwonderwhatasoul...aperson’ssoul...wouldlooklike,”saidPriscilladreamily
