Leslee raced with
bowlegged strides down the middle of a deserted lane. The hot dust rose behind him as his small
bare feet struck the road. In his grubby
hands were a dozen wild daisies, their stems limp in his grasp and their heads bouncing
as he ran.
Seconds later, the
rumpled redhead stopped beside two great oak trees. He knocked and waited a moment for an
answer. "Come in," a little
girl called. "I've almost got
supper ready. Will you stay and have
some?"
The lad walked in—shy,
yet eager. He hid the wilting flowers
behind his back as he teased, "Stephanie, I brought you the flowers you
wanted, but you make this house pretty all by yourself."
Stephanie turned,
whipping her blonde pigtails around.
"Where are they, Leslee?
Where are my roses?"
"Here are your
roses, Stephanie. I picked them for you
myself," he admitted proudly as he pulled out the bedraggled stems.
"Oh, Leslee,
these aren't roses at all! They're only
wildflowers."
"But Stephanie
. . . the wild roses weren't blooming yet, and these were the only ones out
there. Someday, I'll get you the real
ones; but can't we pretend these are roses for today?"
"No, Leslee. Daisies just aren't the same," she
exclaimed as she cast the broken stems in the stream outside the back door of
her grapevine house. "Let's wait to
play house again until the wild roses bloom again."
So saying, Stephanie
left her forest playhouse in despair. Leslee
was not so quick to leave. Staying to
take one last look at their deserted hideout, he noticed the tangled strand of
flowers caught among some rocks just below the stream.
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