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Daisy, for her part, was tired of scratching her chalk on the slate. The first lines she’d done were fairly neat, but as she grew distracted, the letters wobbled. She wriggled on the bench, then looked about furtively hoping no one had noticed – she wanted Miz Bella and her classmates to think well of her.
But . . . oh, she was growing tired and fidgety. When was Miz Bella going to tell them a good long story? And would it be polite to ask for something to drink, she wondered. And a bite of something would be welcome, too. And who was that tall man who’d come into the classroom. He looked familiar. It was the fellow who’d sung last night, she thought. What was he doing here now? Would he be telling them stories?
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When Summer warms the hanging fruit and burns the berry brown/When straw is gold, and ear is white, and harvest comes to town/When honey spills, and apple swells, though wind be in the West/I'll linger here beneath the Sun, because my land is best!
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