The gates ajar. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

The Gates Ajar. 31
out of the carmine cloud that the maple makes,
and singing, singing, everywhere.
It is easy to understand how Bianca heard
"The nightingales sing through her head,"
how she could call them "Owl-like birds,"
who sang "for spite," who sang "for hate,"
who sang "for doom."
Most of all I hate the maple. I wish winter
were back again to fold it away in white, with
its bare, black fingers only to come tapping at
the window. " Roy's maple " we used to call
it. How much fun he had out of that old
tree!
As far back as I can remember, we never
considered spring to be officially introduced till
we had had a fight with the red blossoms.
Roy used to pelt me well; but with that pretty
chivalry of his, which was rare in such a little
fellow, which developed afterwards into that
rarer treatment of women, of which every one
speaks who speaks of him, he would stop the
play the instant it threatened roughness. I
used to be glad, though, that I had strength
and courage enough to make it some fun to
him.
The maple is full of pictures of Roy. Roy,
not yet over the dignity of his first boots, aim,