Daffodil Gully

It was a very balmy trickle of air that was blowing faintly over the green-tinted fields, and a very cloudy sky that billowed out over the blue and green mountains in the distance. Some of it, the shawl of moisture hanging just above the peaks, was brushed a lovely, pale rose color, fading to light daffodil yellow around the edges. A yellow that really did match the clumped mounds of bright gold flowers decorating the area. Dusting the hills, clinging to the little glades between the oak trees, were butter-yellow lilies, and daffodils graced the lower gully by the wet, wet gurgle at Brook Monday's base. The girl, sitting near a clump of sunny blooms at the bottom of the hill, was a very close friend to Brook Monday. She often wandered along the little banks as she composed short verses of poetry or drew a small sketch, kneeling down occasionally to get a closer look at a sprightly flower-nymph or a budding leaf - there is a certain attitude of fresh uprightness in a new leaf that the girl found very difficult to capture (especially since she wan't much of an artist). But just then she was content to sit by the daffodils, draw one, stare down the road at the cherry tree simply over-flowing with lacy pink loveliness, and write about spring.