One of Garland's famous novels picturing the life of Midwestern farmers.
pon the motherless child and clicked her tongue--tch!
"You poor chick!"
But the thing which had happened was this: Rose had conceived of distance and great cities.
The next day she said: "Pappa John, I want to go way up on the bluffs. I want to go up to Table Rock where I can see way, way off."
"It's a long climb up there, Rosie. You'll get tired."
But Rosie insisted and together they climbed the hill. Up beyond the pasture--beyond the black-berry patch--beyond the clinging birches in their white jackets--up where the rocks cropped out of the ground and where curious little wave-worn pebbles lay scattered on the scant grass.
Once a glittering rattle-snake lying in the sun awoke, and slipped under a stone like a stream of golden oil, and the child shrank against her father's thigh in horror.
They climbed slowly up the steep grassy slope and stood at last on the flat rock which topped the bluff. Rose stood there, dizzy, out of breath, with her hair blown across h