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And in the suht in July that kept the people at horeat bread oven; there, under the green grass lamp:

Blessings on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan

Every h,

Fresh baptisms of the dew!

And Miss Welkes’ face there, an oval with her cobweb graying hair and her plainness, would be enchanted, color risen to her cheeks, and wetness to her lips, and the light fro her eyes and coloring her hair to a brightness!

In winter, he trudged hoh bakery winds of sorcery; the seasons given substance by the readings of Miss Welkes who knew so las Mr Poe and Mr Sandburg and Miss Amy Lowell and Mr Shakespeare

The screen door opened under his hand

“Mrs Singer,” he said, “have you got any perfume?”

THE GIFT lay at the top of the stairs, tilted against her door Supper had been early, over at six o’clock There was the war Downstairs, you could hear the tinkling of plates lifted to their kitchen wall racks Douglas, at the furthest bend of the stairs, half hid in the attic door shadoaited for Miss Welkes to twist her brass doorknob, waited to see the gift drop at her feet, unsigned, anonyold stars

At last, the door opened The gift fell

Miss Welkes looked down at it as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff she had never guessed was there before She looked in all directions, slowly, and bent to pick it up She didn’t open it, but stood in the doorway, holding the gift in her hands, for a long tiift on a table But there was no rattle of paper She was looking at the gift, the wrapping, the tape, the stars, and not touching it

“Oh, Miss Welkes, Miss Welkes!” he wanted to cry

Half an hour later, there she was, on the front porch, seated with her neat hands folded, and watching the door It was the sus, on the figured pillows, the wo, the children in idle groupings on the steps But this was early, the town porches still si from the day, the echoes only temporarily allayed, the civil war of Independence Afternoon

muffled for an hour in the sounds of poured lemonade and scraped dishes But here, the only person on the street porches, alone, was Miss Eleanora Welkes, her face pink instead of gray, flushed, her eyes watching the door, her body tensed forward Douglas saw her froilance He did not say hello, she did not see hiht Within the house the sounds of preparation grew intense and furious Phones rang, feet ran up and down the avalanche of stairs, the three belles giggled, bath doors slammed, and then out and down the front steps went the three young ladies, one at a ti, Miss Welkes would lean forward, sirls appeared in floaty green dresses and bleay like thistle down the darkening avenues, laughing up at the men