r
with vague, undefinable emotions. She read: "O youth, youth! Thou carest
for nothing: thou possessest, as it were, all the treasures of the
universe; even sorrow comforts thee, even melancholy becomes thee; thou
art self-confident and audacious; thou sayest: 'I alone live--behold!'
But the days speed on and vanish without a trace and without reckoning,
and everything vanishes in thee, like wax in the sun, like snow..."

Missy felt sublime sadness resounding through her soul. It was
intolerable that days should speed by irrevocably and vanish, like wax
in the sun, like snow. She sighed. But even as she sighed the feeling
of sadness began to slip away. So she turned to the poem discovered last
night, and read it over happily.

The title, "A Birthday," made her feel that Raymond Bonner was somehow
connected with it. This was his birthday--and that brought her thoughts
back definitely to the party. Mother had said that presents were not
expected, that they were getting too big to exchange little presents,
yet she would have liked to carry him some little token. The
ramblers and honeysuckle above her head sniffed at her in fragrant
suggestion--why couldn't she just take him some flowers?

Acting on the impulse, Missy jumped up and began breaking off the
loveliest blooms. But after she had gathered a big bunch a swift wave
of self-consciousness swept over her. What would they say at the house?
Would they let her take them? Would they understand? And a strong
distaste for their inevitable questions, for the explanations which she
could not explain definitely even to herself, prompted her not to carry
the bouquet to the house. Instead she ran, got a pitcher of water,
carried it back to the summerhouse and left the flowers temporarily
there, hoping to figure out ways and means later.

At the house she discovered that the baby was awake, so she had to hurry
back to take care of him. She always loved to do that; she didn't mind
that a desire to dress up in her party attire had just struck her, for
the baby always entered into the spirit of her performances. While she
was fastening up the pink dotted mull, Poppy walked inquisitively in and
sat down to oversee this special, important event. Missy succeeded
with the greatest difficulty in adjusting the brocaded sash to her
satisfaction. She regretted her unwaved hair, but mother was going to
crimp it herself in the evening. The straight, everyday coiffure
marred the picture in