she pulled bark off this cottonwood...

look in the dust of the path--the letters you taught her--she's drawn pictures of birds en' hosses an' people....

Look, a cross! Oh, Jane, your cross!" Lassiter dragged Jane on, and as if from a book read the meaning of little Fay's trail.

All the way down the knoll, through the shrubbery, round and round a cottonwood, Fay's vagrant fancy left records of her sweet musings and innocent play.

Long had she lingered round a bird-nest to leave therein the gaudy wing of a butterfly.