Freckles lifted his hat and faced the sky. The harvest moon looked down,
sheeting the swamp in silver glory. The Limberlost sang her night song.
The swale softly rustled in the wind. Winged things of night brushed
his face; and still Freckles gazed upward, trying to fathom these things
that had come to him. There was no help from the sky. It seemed far
away, cold, and blue. The earth, where flowers blossomed, angels walked,
and love could be found, was better. But to One, above, he must make
acknowledgment for these miracles. His lips moved and he began talking
softly.
"Thank You for each separate good thing that has come to me," he said,
"and above all for the falling of the feather. For if it didn't really
fall from an angel, its falling brought an Angel, and if it's in the
great heart of you to exercise yourself any further about me, oh, do
please to be taking good care of her!"
CHAPTER VI
Wherein a Fight Occurs and Women Shoot Straight
The following morning Freckles, inexpressibly happy, circled the
Limberlost.
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