She did not grow irises down one side of a brook and arrowheads down the other.
They waded across and flew across and visited back and forth, riding the water or the wind or the down of a bee or the tail of a cow.

As she served the supper she had brought she very gravely informed him that there would be iris on both sides of his brook, and cress and miners' lettuce under the bridge; and she knew exactly where the wild clematis grew that would whiten his embankment after his workmen had extracted the last root of poison oak.
"It may not scorch you, Peter," she said gravely, "but you must look out for the Missus and the little things.

I haven't definitely decided on her yet, but she looks a good deal like Mary Louise Whiting to mc.

I saw her the other day.

She came to school after Donald.