" And they crowded round to examine the objects in
her hand--a dirty earth-stained trowel and a fern. They knew she
collected ferns on the sly, but never before had they seen her bring
home such a prize. Usually she found only crumpled things like old
bits of wrinkled brown paper which she called "specimens." This one
was marvellously beautiful. It had a dainty, slender stalk of ebony
black, and its hundred tiny leaves quivered like a shower of green
water-drops in the air. There was actual joy in every trembling bit of
it.
"That's my sign," announced Aunt Emily with pride: "Maidenhair! It'll
grow again. I've got the roots." And she said it as triumphantly as
Stumper had said "snail-shell."
"Of course, Aunty," Judy cried, yet doubtfully. "_You_ ought to know."
She twiddled it round in her fingers till the quivering fronds emitted
a tiny sound. "And you can use it as a feather too." She lowered her
head to listen.
"We've each got a feather," mentioned Tim. "It's a compass. Shows the
way, you know. You hear him calling--that way."
"The Tramp explained that," Judy added. "He's Leader. Come on, Aunty.
We ought to be off; the others went ages ago.
Pages:
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393