lue flags, scarlet lilies, buttercups, cattails
and redbirds sailing over them; east, there would be apple bloom and
soft grass, cowslips, and bubbling water, robins, thrushes, and
bluebirds; and south, waving corn with wild rose and alder borders, and
sparrows, and larks on every fence rider.

Right there I got that daisy thing figured out. It wasn't that there
were or ever would be daisies and buttercups among the frozen grass;
but it was forever and always that when this FEEL came into the air,
you knew they were COMING. THAT was what ailed the gander and the
gobbler. They hadn't a thing to be thankful for yet, but something
inside them was swelling and pushing because of what was coming. I
felt exactly as they did, because I wanted to act the same way, but I'd
been sick enough to know that I'd better be thankful for the chance to
sit on the fence, and think about buttercups and daisies. Really, one
old brown and purple skunk cabbage with a half-frozen bee buzzing over
it, or a few forlorn little spring beauties, would have set me wild,
and when a lark really did go over, away up high, and a dove began to
coo in the orchard, if Laddie hadn't come for me, I would have fallen
from the fence.

I simply had to get well and quickly too, for the wonderful time was
beginning. It was all very well to lie in bed when there was nothing
else to do, and every one would pet me and give me things; but here was
maple syrup time right at the door, and the sugar camp most fun alive;
here was all the neighbourhood crazy mad at the foxes, and planning a
great chase covering a circuit of miles before the ground thawed; here
was Easter and all the children coming, except Shelley--again, it would
cost too much for only one day--and with everything beginning to hum, I
found out there would be more amusement outdoors than inside. That was
how I came to study out the daisy piece. There was nothing in the
silly, untrue lines: the pull and tug was in what they made you think
of.

I was still so weak I had to take a nap every day, so I wasn't sleepy
as early at night, and I heard father and mother talk over a lot of
things before they went to bed. After they mentioned it, I remembered
that we hadn't received nearly so many letters from Shelley lately, and
mother seldom found time to read them aloud during the day and forgot,
or her eyes were tired, at night.

"Are you worrying about Shelley?" asked father one night.

"Yes, I am,"