Roy J. Snell
Green Eyes.
( May 5, 2014)
It was night on Morton’s Bay. A bright half moon painted a path of silver over water as still as the night.
At the very center of this narrow bay some dark object cast a shadow. This was a rowboat. It was painted black. The anchor lay in its prow. The boat did not drift. There are times of perfect calm on the upper waters of Lake Huron.
One figure was noticeable in this boat. A slight girl, she sat bent over as if in sleep, or perhaps in deep meditation.
[12]
There was another person in the stern of the boat. A large girl, she lay in perfect repose against a pile of pillows. Was she asleep? Did she dream? She was thinking. One thinks best when at perfect repose. Where could be found more perfect repose? Perhaps nowhere. Yet this girl, who was none other than our old friend, Florence Huyler, was slightly disturbed.
At the very center of this narrow bay some dark object cast a shadow. This was a rowboat. It was painted black. The anchor lay in its prow. The boat did not drift. There are times of perfect calm on the upper waters of Lake Huron.
One figure was noticeable in this boat. A slight girl, she sat bent over as if in sleep, or perhaps in deep meditation.
[12]
There was another person in the stern of the boat. A large girl, she lay in perfect repose against a pile of pillows. Was she asleep? Did she dream? She was thinking. One thinks best when at perfect repose. Where could be found more perfect repose? Perhaps nowhere. Yet this girl, who was none other than our old friend, Florence Huyler, was slightly disturbed.
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