Good thing I've got my window,Lahoma would say as the snow lay thick on the plains and in broken lines all over the mountain,and the cutting blast made the fire jump with sudden fright.She would hold her book close to the dirt square in which the frame was planted,and spell out words she had never heard used,such as lad,lass,sport,and the like mysteries.This window is going to civilize me,Brick.
It did not lessen their relish in the subject that they had discussed it already a hundred times.It was the same way with the hand-made bench,with the trench that carried water from their door during sudden downpours,and with the self-congratulation over owning two ponies to keep each other company.
They's one thing about us,Lahoma,which it ain't according to the big outside world,and yet I hope it won't never be changed.We are mighty glad we've got what we've got.And to be glad of what you've got is a sure way to multiply your property.Every time you brag on that window,it shines like two windows to me.
Spring came late that year,and in the early days of March,Brick rode over to the cove behind the precipice after Bill Atkins.I want you to come over to my place,he begged,and answer some of Lahoma's questions.Being closeted with her in that there dugout all winter,she has pumped me as dry as a bone.
Perhaps Bill Atkins had had his fill of solitude during that cold winter--or perhaps he was hungry for another hour of the little girl's company.Nothing,however,showed his satisfaction as he entered her chamber.Here I am,he announced,seating himself on the bench.This was his only greeting.
Is it drug or dragged?demanded Lahoma.Dragged.
Why don't God send me a little girl to play with,after me asking for one every night,all winter?