For
there was a spot in the little meadow,--once of gold-flecked emerald,
now of spotless pearl,--a spot where the ground "tilted," to use
Star's expression, suddenly down to a tiny hollow, where a fairy
spring bubbled out of the rock into a fairy lake. In summer, Star
rather despised this lake, which was, truth to tell, only twenty feet
long and ten feet wide. It was very nice for Imogen to drink from
and to stand in on hot days, and it did many lovely things in the
way of reflecting blue skies and fleecy clouds and delicate traceries
of leaf and bough; but as water, it seemed a very trifling thing to
a child who had the whole sweep of the Atlantic to fill her eyes,
and who had the breakers for her playfellows and gossips.
But in winter, matters were different. All the laughing lips of
ripples, all the white tossing crests of waves, must content
themselves with the ice-bound rocks, till spring should bring them
their child-comrade again; and the little sheet of dark crystal in
the hollow of the meadow had things all its own way, and mirrored
back her bright face every day. The little red sled, launched at the
top of the "tilt," came skimming down the slope, and shot like an
arrow over the smooth ice, kept always clear of snow by the Captain's
ever-busy hands; or else, when tired of coasting, the child would
plant her small feet wide apart, and slide, and run, and slide again,
till the pond could have cracked with pleasure, if such a thing had
been in accordance with its principles.
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