She raised one hand and laid it on the lamp near him.

He shifted the lines, picked up her hand, and held it tight.

Mother stood there looking, just silently looking.

May jabbed me in the side, leaned over and whispered: "Could we but stand where Moses stood, And view the landscape o'er, Not our Little Creek, nor dinner getting cold, Could fright us from that shore." I couldn't help giggling, but I knew that was no proper time, so I hid my head in her lap and smothered the sound the best I could; but they were so busy soft-soddering each other they didn't pay a bit of attention to us.
It was May now, all the leaves were fresh and dustless, everything that flowered at that time was weighted with bloom, bees hummed past, butterflies sailed through the carriage, while birds at the tops of their voices, all of them, every kind there was, sang fit to split; friendly, unafraid bluebirds darted around us, and talked a blue streak from every fence rider.

Made you almost crazy to know what they said.
The Little Creek flowed at our feet across the road, through the blue-flag swamp, where the red and the yellow birds lived.