But before setting a
match to the paper she turned toward the other girl hovering about her
like a butterfly.
"I wonder if you would like me to recite the fire-maker's song?" she
asked. "I haven't the right to say it yet, but it is so lovely that I
would like you to hear it."
Betty stared and laughed. "Do fire-makers have songs?" she demanded.
"How queer that sounds! Perhaps the Indians used to have fire songs
long ago when a fire really meant so much. But I can't imagine a maid's
chanting a song before one's fire in the morning and I don't think I
should like being wakened up by it."
"You would like this one," the other girl persisted.
Little yellow spurts of flame were now creeping forth from between the
sticks, some leaping away into nothingness, others curling and enfolding
them. The paper in the grate crackled noisily as the cold May wind
swept down the chimney with a defiant roar and both girls silently
watched the newly kindled fire with the fascination that is eternal.
Betty had also dropped down on her knees. "What is your song?" she
asked curiously an instant later, raising her hands before her face to
let the firelight shine through.
Esther's head was bent so that her face could not be seen, but the
beauty of her speech was reflected in the other girl's changing
expression.
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