"Of course," the other chuckled. "Didn't I tell you 'tender and
beautiful,' and 'bang out in the open'?"
"Then you're right, Uncle; they _are_ signs," cried Judy, "and you
_do_ like butter," and she danced away to pick the dandelions that
smothered the field with gold. But the Tramp held out his feather like
a wand.
"They're our best signs, remember," he cried. "You might as well pick
a feather out of a living bird."
"Oh!"--and she pulled herself up sharply, a little flush running
across her face and the wind catching at her flying hair. She swayed a
moment, nearly overbalancing owing to the interrupted movement, and
looking for all the world like a wild young rose tree, her eyes two
shining blossoms in the air. Then she dropped down and buried her nose
among the crowd of yellow flowers. She smelt them audibly, drawing her
breath in and letting it out again as though she could almost taste
and eat the perfume.
"That's better," said the Tramp approvingly. "Smell, then follow," and
he moved forward again with his dancing, happy step. "All the wild,
natural things do it," he cried, looking back over his shoulder at the
three who were on their knees with faces pressed down against the
yellow carpet.
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