t alo be sleeping, tual Sunday afternoons; and in ttle to nig pounce, sometimes, of an oy is a top of a  pokes tones, ufts of grass and rag. ood doves rees at ttom of t burglars, but ts nothing new.

    Next-doors c again. Its Aprils quick-c: one day, bare; t dripping its curds of bloom.

    One day, once, sometime after t tle peac tinent bet;Me Butterfly, you Pinkerton.quot; And, t ly at time, so it proved, except,  urned  me sufficient good taste.

    A small, moist, green als of ttering copping train. t on o tted s;  t ed, not ti, but y, ty, tingness of tion.

    quot;t; he said.

    quot;Next year, t; I said comfortably; I ranger  attuned to ty, I believed t life  for regret.

    quot;s t to me?quot; he said.

    You used to say you  me. t made me feel like today and gone tomorro is not to a person o spend t of ones life, after all. And, after all t, for ty-t to t, like a fis comes ears at ts eyes, but tears wears.

    time ed over your face.

    tree in next-doors garden is forty feet all as t . In fact, it  one but tricks up its arboreal sleeve; eacrick involves ts of transformations and t performs regularly as clocke spring. thus:

    one day, in April, sticks; ter, flohen --

    til, one fine day, tree turns into a busy toranced circle of cats beloer, tree bears not cs picked perfectly clean by quick, clever beaks, a stone tree.

    t of Lettys ended  montember! Dandelions come before ts of fuzzy seed. ts a long bolster of creeping