The celebration began early the next morning before Aunt Olivia
was up. She lay in bed and heard it begin. Rebecca Mary out in
the dewy garden was singing at the top of her voice. Aunt Olivia
had never heard her sing like that before--not at the top. Her
sweet, shrill voice sounded rather unacquainted with such free
heights as that, and the woman in the bed wondered with a staid
little smile if it did not make Rebecca Mary feel as she felt
when she sat in the easy chair rocking.
Rebecca Mary sang hymns mostly, but interspersed in her programme
were bits of Mother Goose set to original tunes--she had learned
the Mother Goose of the minister's Littlest Little Boy--and
original bits set to familiar tunes. It was a wild little orgy of
song.
"My grief!" Aunt Olivia ejaculated under her breath; but she did
not mean her grief. Other people might think Rebecca Mary was
crazy--not Aunt Olivia. But yet she wondered a little and found
it hard to wait.
Rebecca Mary washed the breakfast cup and plates, but put the
pans and kettles to soak, and hurried away to her play. There was
so much playing to be done before the sun set on her opportunity.
She had made a little programme on a slip of paper, with
approximate times allotted to each item. As:
Tree climbing...1 hr.
(Do not tare anything)
Mud pies .
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