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He picked a buttercup, and held it up to her jaw. “Do you like margarine?” he asked.
“Spread!” she shouted. “They are not made into margarine. They are made into crowns for the Queen; she has another one each morning.”
“I’ll make you a crown,” he said. “You should wear it to-night.”
” But where will my throne be ?” she asked.
“It should be on the center venture of the stile by the corn-field.”
So when the moon rose I went out to see.
He wore a red coat and his top with the plume in it. Round her head there was a wreath of buttercups; it was very little like a crown. On one side of the wreath there were a few daisies, and on the other was a little pack of blackberryblossom.
“Come and move in the moonlight,” he said ; so she scaled and over the stile, and remained in the corn-field holding out her two hands to him. He took them in his, and after that they moved all around all down the pathway, while the wheat gestured astutely on either side, and the poppies stirred and pondered. On they went, endlessly through the corn-field towards the expansive green knolls extending far into the separation.
Endlessly, he yelling for delight, and she snickering out so cheerfully that the sound headed out to the edge of the wood, and the thrushes listened, and longed for Spring. On they went, endlessly, and all around, he in his red coat, and she with the wild blooms dropping one by one from her wreath. Endlessly in the moonlight, endlessly till they had moved all down the corn-field, till they had crossed the green glades, till they were covered up in the fog past.
That is all I know; yet I imagine that in the far away some place, where the moon is sparkling, he regardless she move along a corn-field, he in his red coat, and she with the wild blooms dropping from her hair.