“My grandmother sent me these. You know how it is, grandmothers just forget you're growing up.”
May Belle's one living grandmother was in Georgia and never sent her anything.
“You already punched 'um out?” “No, honestly. And all the clothes punch out, too.”
“You don't have to use scissors.” They could see she was weakening.
“How about,” Jess began, “you coming down and taking a look at 'um,”
“and if they suit you, you could take 'um along home when you go tell Momma where I am?”
After they had watched May Belle tearing up the hill, clutching her new treasure,
Jess and Leslie turned and ran up over the empty field behind the old Perkins place
and down to the dry creek bed that separated farmland from the woods.
There was an old crab apple tree there, just at the bank of the creek bed, from which someone long forgotten had hung a rope.
They took turns swinging across the gully on the rope.
It was a glorious autumn day, and if you looked up as you swung, it gave you the feeling of floating.
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