"And oh, Karl," she laughed, joyously, "you're _not_ on your way to the
penitentiary for life."
"No," he said, and he seemed to be speaking to something within himself
rather than to her,--"I'm _not_!"
They had reached Jackson Park, and sat down for a little rest before they
should wend their way on to the lake. "Oh, Ernestine," he said, taking it
in in long breaths, feeling the dew upon his face, and hearing the murmur
of many living things,--"_tell_ me about it, dear. I want to see it too!"
"Karl--every tree looks as though it were just as glad as we are! Can't
you feel that the trees feel just as we do about things? The leaves
haven't all come out yet, some of them are holding themselves within
themselves in a coy little way they have--although intending all the time
to come out just as fast as ever they can. And it's that glorious,
unspoiled green--the kind nature uses to make painters feel foolish. Oh,
nature's having much fun with the painters this morning. Right over
there,"--pointing with his finger--"is such a beautiful tree.
Pages:
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359