The brook began in a
spring that bubbled clear and cold, from under a slab of rock. Round
about it all was covered with moss, still green, though frozen stiff by
the snowstorm's chilly blasts. Shrivelled ferns bending over its mouth
promised summer beauties.
"What a lovely spot!" cried Ethel Blue. "This is where fairies and wood
nymphs live when that drift melts. Don't you know this must be a great
gathering place for birds? Can't you see them now dipping their beaks
into the water and cocking their heads up at the sky afterwards!" and
she quoted:--
"Dip, birds, dip
Where the ferns lean over,
And their crinkled edges drip,
Haunt and hover."
"Here's the best place yet!" called Dorothy, who had pushed on and was
now out of sight.
"Where are you?"
"Here. See if you can find me," came a muffled answer.
"Where do you suppose she went to?" asked Ethel Brown, as they all three
straightened themselves, yet saw no sign of Dorothy.
"I hope she hasn't fallen down a precipice and been killed!" said Ethel
Blue, whose imagination sometimes ran away with her.
"More likely she has twisted her ankle," practical Ethel Brown.
"She wouldn't sound as gay as that if anything had happened to her,"
Della reminded them.
The cries that kept reaching them were unquestionably cheerful but where
they came from was a problem that they did not seem able to solve.
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