thee; thou art self-confident and audacious; thou sayest: 'I alone
live--behold!' But the days speed on and vanish without a trace and
without reckoning, and everything vanishes in thee, like wax in the
sun, like snow. . ."

Missy felt sublime sadness resounding through her soul. It was
intolerable that days should speed by irrevocably and vanish, like
wax in the sun, like snow. She sighed. But even as she sighed the
feeling of sadness began to slip away. So she turned to the poem
discovered last night, and read it over happily.

The title, "A Birthday," made her feel that Raymond Bonner was
somehow connected with it. This was his birthday--and that brought
her thoughts back definitely to the party. Mother had said that
presents were not expected, that they were getting too big to
exchange little presents, yet she would have liked to carry him some
little token. The ramblers and honeysuckle above her head sniffed at
her in fragrant suggestion--why couldn't she just take him some
flowers?

Acting on the impulse, Missy jumped up and began breaking off the
loveliest blooms. But after she had gathered a big bunch a swift
wave of self-consciousness swept over her. What would they say at
the house? Would they let her take them? Would they understand? And
a strong distaste for their inevitable questions, for the
explanations which she could not explain definitely even to herself,
prompted her not to carry the bouquet to the house. Instead she ran,
got a pitcher of water, carried it back to the summerhouse and left
the flowers temporarily there, hoping to figure out ways and means
later.