Poor Farm Road on their bicycles, Jodie apprehensively riding on Hoagland's handlebars.
"Gee! Here's a lot, under these old dead leaves!"
The stems clung close to the cold ground under the rotting leaves and pine needles. Clusters of small stars, white and frosty pink, with rusty-spotted leaves. So sweet, so sweet!
"Joseph Montgomery Green! Don't pull them up that way! Miss Hazel says you mustn't ever pull a wild flower up by its roots!"
"Gee! I hope the old woman in that house don't see us!"
"Why, what would she do?"
"She'd do plenty," said Hoagland, darkly.
"Well, but tell us what, why don't you?"
"Noble says she caught a bad little boy one night and she cooked him!"
"She wouldn't cook a good, quite big boy, would she?" Jodie asked, anxiously.
"Hoagland, you ought to be ashamed, scaring Jodie. Now listen, I tell you what we got to do, kids—we got to wet our handkerchiefs in the brook to keep these fresh."
Which was the pouring of the brook, which the wind in the pine trees? The two sounds flowed together. The water slid smooth as glass over the stones, tiny voices spoke through the waterfall. They soaked their handkerchiefs in the icy stream, scattering a shimmering school of minnows.
