Little Dan'l's thin, pretty face peeped up at him
from between the sides of her green sunbonnet. She
pointed one dainty finger at a cloud of pale yellow
butterflies in the field beside which they were walk-
ing. "Want to chase flutterbies," she chirped.
Little Dan'l had a fascinating way of misplacing
her consonants in long words.
"No; you'll get overhet. You just walk along
slow with Uncle Dan'l, and pretty soon we'll come
to the pretty brook," said Daniel.
"Where the lagon-dries live?" asked little Dan'l,
meaning dragon-flies.
"Yes," said Daniel. He was conscious, as he
spoke, of increasing waves of thready black floating
before his eyes. They had floated since dawn, but
now they were increasing. Some of the time he
could hardly see the narrow sidewalk path between
the dusty meadowsweet and hardhack bushes, since
those floating black threads wove together into a
veritable veil before him. At such times he walked
unsteadily, and little Dan'l eyed him curiously.
"Why don't you walk the way you always do?"
she queried.
"Uncle Dan'l can't see jest straight, somehow,"
replied the old man; "guess it's because it's rather
warm."
It was in truth a day of terror because of the heat.
It was one of those days which break records, which
live in men's memories as great catastrophes, which
furnish head-lines for newspapers, and are alluded
to with shudders at past sufferings.
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