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A Little Dunker
BY JENNETTE LEE
THE Dunker sat on the dike tending her cow. The morning winds sang to her. The meadow spread wide before her. But the Dunker did not see the meadow nor the red cow feeding on it. Her dark eyes were fixed gravely on the clouds floating overhead—swelling clouds, piled with darkness and broken by little rims of light. They stretched, far as the eye could see, above the level meadow—cornstalks and dry short grass and green turnip-fields and brown earth radiant in their light. It was the light of early spring, or late fall, clear and liquid, and mysteriously deep. The Dunker's heart was filled with it as she sat very still looking at the clouds.
The Dunker was only nine years old—though from the cut of her blue dress she might have been sixty. It was full in the skirt and high in the neck and buttoned in front. It had been made by her mother after a pattern of her own. It was not a costume to gladden the heart of a child. But as it spread its blue folds on the bank, and the thin straight waist and dark head and folded hands rose above it, it might have belonged to some eternal saint seated in shining light.
The Dunker was far from a saint, and her name
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