A little grass peninsula running out between
the river and a narrow lagoon, a part of Decker's ranch, two miles by water
below the Springs and half a mile from Decker's Ferry, set all about with
a hedge of rose, willow, and wild-currant bushes, sword-grass, and tall
reeds,--the grasses enormous, like Japanese decorations,--crossing the
darks of the opposite shore and the lights of the river and sky. Our tents
are pitched, our blankets spread in the sun, our wagon is soaking its tired
feet in the river. Tom and Harshaw are up-stream somewhere, fishing for
supper. Billings is bargaining with Old Man Decker for the "keep" of his
team. Kitty and I are enjoying ourselves. There is a rip in one of the back
seams of my jacket, Kitty tells me, but even that cannot move me.
I say we are enjoying ourselves; but my young guest has developed a new
mood of late which gives poignancy to my growing tenderness for the girl.
She has kept up wonderfully, with the aid of her bit of a temper, for which
I like her none the less. How she will stand this idleness, monotony, and
intimacy, with the accent of beauty pressing home, I cannot say. I rather
fear for her.
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