“Well, yo’ done purty good.”
“Wait till I curl it,” said Bambi, throwing up the window and popping her head out into the night air.
“Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, yo’ curl yo’ haih in Noo Yawk jes’ lak yo’ do at home.”
“Why not? This cold, damp air is just the thing. Now look at me,” she boasted, shaking her head so that the soft, curly rings fluttered like little bells about her face.
“Yo’ll do,” said Ardelia.
Bambi disappeared into the closet, and presently she popped out her head.
“Ardelia, prepare to die of joy. When you have seen my new dress, life has nothing more to offer you.”
“I ain’ gwine to die till after dis show.”
Out of the closet Bambi danced, her arms full of sunset clouds apparently She held it up, and Ardelia’s eyes bulged.
“Yo’ don’ call dat a dress?”
“Put it on me, and you’ll call it a poem.”
“Dey ain’t nuthin’ to it,” she protested, as she slipped it over Bambi’s head.
It was certainly a diaphanous thing of many layers of chiffon, graduating in colour from flame to palest apricot pink. It hung straight and simple on
