Edith Bancroft

Jane Allen Edith Bancroft

Jolly round fleecy clouds tumbled over their playmates in the great, broad playfield of endless blue; baby cloudlets climbed to tops, only to slide down the other side, while haughty, majestic, dignified leaders paraded straight to the prairie line, taking on tones more sombre with each lap of earth left below. A shower should be marshalled, it had been promised the wheat fields, but those young sky rowdies never wanted to work, always romping and skylarking, allowing the silliest little breezes to blow them off their course. The girl on the grass gazed up; in her gray eyes the steely glints quivered into sharp, silver blade-like flashes, reflected from the arrow of some little god just peeking from behind the cloud mountain. He warned her of the shower, he knew the parade would soon be formed into battle line, yet the girl saw only the sunshine still braving the cloud's attack. "Just like one's fortune," she mused, "clouds and sunshine, pleasant here and a storm somewhere else. I wonder why we take things so seriously? I believe the greatest philosophy of life is moderation: and I am going to be very moderate with my little worries. The sunshine is only behind the cloud, and the reaction is always crowding the perplexities. I am not going to worry about going away this year."