"
She was by this time sobbing as I had never heard her before--deep,
passionate sobs. Then again the Pilot had an inspiration.
"Now, Gwen," he said severely, "you know we're not as mean as that, and
that you are just talking nonsense, every word. Now I'm going to smooth
out your red hair and tell you a story."
"It's NOT red," she cried, between her sobs. This was her sore point.
"It is red, as red can be; a beautiful, shining purple RED," said The
Pilot emphatically, beginning to brush.
"Purple!" cried Gwen, scornfully.
"Yes, I've seen it in the sun, purple. Haven't you?" said The Pilot,
appealing to me. "And my story is about the canyon, our canyon, your
canyon, down there."
"Is it true?" asked Gwen, already soothed by the cool, quick-moving
hands.
"True? It's as true as--as--" he glanced round the room, "as the
Pilgrim's Progress." This was satisfactory, and the story went on.
"At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie. One
day the Master of the Prairie, walking out over his great lawns, where
were only grasses, asked the Prairie, 'Where are your flowers?' and the
Prairie said, 'Master, I have no seeds.' Then he spoke to the birds,
and they carried seeds of every kind of flower and strewed them far and
wide, and soon the Prairie bloomed with crocuses and roses and buffalo
beans and the yellow crowfoot and the wild sunflowers and the red lilies
all the summer long.
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