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Chickens in the Field
BLYTHE came across the lawn, her hands hidden behind her. Eyes roguish, her small positive person swinging gaily, definitely, in time to the tune she was singing. "I know a secret—I won't tell; I know a secret—I won't tell," she chanted.
Yes, she knows a secret. What is it, I wonder? If we knew, you and I, it wouldn't be a secret.
Sometimes I think I have guessed a hint of it—that the age between four and five is the most beautiful of all. I meet her upstairs unexpectedly
