ing-apple tree—why of course! I had never thought of it, but that rock was where they got their gold. . . .
A house-wren came out of a niche in the porch and flew down to the platform in the boxalder, where father was accustomed to feed the birds. The platform was spread with muffin crumbs. The little wren ate, and flew to the clothes-line and poured forth his thankful exquisite song. I had always felt regret that we had no clothes reel that would whirl like a witch in the wind, but instead merely a system of clothes-lines, duly put up on Mondays; but the little wren evidently did not know the difference.
“Abracadabra, make me sing like that . . .” I told him. But I hadn’t said the right thing, and he flew away and left me not singing. I began thinking what if he had made me sing, and what if I had put back my head and gone downstairs singing like a wren, and gone to arithmetic class singing like a wren, and nobody could have stopped me, and nobody would have wanted to stop me. . . .
. . . I leaned over the sill, holding both arms down and feeling the blood flow down and weight my fingers like a pulse. What if I
