Awhile we watched the flashing
ripples on the river, and the sky's darkening afterglow. Then we turned
to the moonlit east.
"Do you know what the people of Hopi-land call this month?" Eloise
asked.
"I don't know Hopi words for what is beautiful," I replied.
"They call it 'the Moon of the Peach Blossom', and they cherish the time
in their calendar."
"Then we will be Hopi people," I declared, "for it was in their Moon of
the Peach Blossom that you grew up for me from the little girl who
called me a bob-cat down in the doorway of the old San Miguel Church in
Santa Fe, and from Aunty Boone's 'Little Lees' at old Fort Bent, to the
Eloise of St. Ann's by the Kansas Neosho."
The sound of a sweet-toned bell told us that we must not stay longer,
and together we followed the path from the Flat Rock up to the academy
door. And all the way was like the ways of Paradise to me, for I was in
the peach-blossom moon of my own life.
X
THE HANDS THAT CLING
The hands that take
No weight from your sad cross, oh, lighter far
It were but for the burden that they bring!
God only knows what hind'ring things they are--
The hands that cling.
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