"Flowers are
like babies. I never made much of a fuss over my babies, but I loved
them, and saw that they had just what they needed at the right time."
"That accounts for Webb's exuberant growth and spirit, and the ethereal
beauty of Len's mature blossoming," remarked Burt.
"You are a plant that never had enough pruning," retorted his portly
eldest brother.
"I shall be glad to help you, if you will teach me how," Amy said to Mrs.
Clifford.
"In the pruning department?" asked Burt, with assumed dismay.
"Possibly," was the reply, with an arch little look which delighted the
young fellow.
"Come, Maggie," said Mrs. Clifford, "sing a Christmas carol before we
separate. It will be a pleasant way of bringing our happy evening to a
close."
Mrs. Leonard went to the piano. "Amy," she asked, "can't you help me?"
"I'll do my best, if you will choose something I know."
A selection was soon made, and Amy modestly blended a clear, sweet voice
with the air that Mrs. Leonard sang, and as the sympathetic tones of the
young girl swelled the rich volume of song the others exchanged looks of
unaffected pleasure.
"Oh, Amy, I am so glad you can sing!" cried Mrs. Clifford, "for we have
always made so much of music in our home."
"Papa," she replied, with moist eyes, "felt as you do, and he had me sing
for him ever since I can remember."
"Amy dear," said Mrs. Leonard, in a low voice, "suppose you take the
soprano and I the alto in the next stanza.
Pages:
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56