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Freckles by Gene Stratton-Porter
page 33 of 297 (11%)
while the warm air made it fluffy. The rapidly growing wings began to
show the most delicate green, with lavender fore-ribs, transparent,
eye-shaped markings, edged with lines of red, tan, and black, and long,
crisp trailers.

Freckles was whispering to himself for fear of disturbing the moth. It
began a systematic exercise of raising and lowering its exquisite wings
to dry them and to establish circulation. The boy realized that soon it
would be able to spread them and sail away. His long-coming soul sent up
its first shivering cry.

"I don't know what it is! Oh, I wish I knew! How I wish I knew! It must
be something grand! It can't be a butterfly! It's away too big. Oh, I
wish there was someone to tell me what it is!"

He climbed on the locust post, and balancing himself with the wire,
held a finger in the line of the moth's advance up the twig. It
unhesitatingly climbed on, so he stepped to the path, holding it to the
light and examining it closely. Then he held it in the shade and turned
it, gloating over its markings and beautiful coloring. When he held the
moth to the limb, it climbed on, still waving those magnificent wings.

"My, but I'd like to be staying with you!" he said. "But if I was to
stand here all day you couldn't grow any prettier than you are right
now, and I wouldn't grow smart enough to tell what you are. I suppose
there's someone who knows. Of course there is! Mr. McLean said there
were people who knew every leaf, bird, and flower in the Limberlost. Oh
Lord! How I wish You'd be telling me just this one thing!"

The goldfinch had ventured back to the wire, for there was his mate,
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