never be a real poet if you haven’t made at least one poem about spring.
Emily was wondering whether she would have elves dancing on the brookside by moonlight, or pixies sleeping in a bed of ferns in her poem, when something confronted her at a bend in the path which was neither elf nor pixy, but seemed odd and weird enough to belong to some of the tribes of Little People. Was it a witch? Or an elderly fay of evil intentions—the bad fairy of all christening tales?
“I’m the b’y’s Aunt Tom,” said the appearance, seeing that Emily was too amazed to do anything but stand and stare.
“Oh!” Emily gasped in relief. She was no longer frightened. But what a very peculiar looking lady Perry’s Aunt Tom was. Old—so old that it seemed quite impossible that she could ever have been young; a bright red hood over crone-like, fluttering grey locks; a little face seamed by a thousand fine, criss-cross wrinkles; a long nose with a knob on the end of it; little twinkling, eager, grey eyes under bristly brows; a ragged man’s coat covering her from neck to feet; a basket in one hand and a black knobby stick in the other.
“Staring wasn’t thought good breeding in my time,” said Aunt Tom.
“Oh!” said Emily again. “Excuse me— How do you do!” she added, with a vague grasp after her manners.
“Polite—and not too proud,” said Aunt Tom, peering curiously at her. “I’ve been up to the big house with a pair of socks for the b’y but ’twas yourself I wanted to see.”
“Me?” said Emily blankly.
“Yis. The b’y has been talking a bit of you and a plan kem into my head. Thinks I to myself it’s no bad notion. But I’ll make sure before I waste my bit o’ money. Emily Byrd Starr is your name and Murray is
