: Gene Stratton-Porter
: Freckles
: Seltzer Books
: 9781455317530
: 1
: CHF 0.10
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 801
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
According to Wikipedia: 'Gene Stratton-Porter (August 17, 1863 - December 6, 1924) was an American author, amateur naturalist, wildlife photographer, and one of the earliest women to form a movie studio and production company. She wrote some of the best selling novels and well-received columns in magazines of the day... She became a wildlife photographer, specializing in the birds and moths in one of the last of the vanishing wetlands of the lower Great Lakes Basin. The Limberlost and Wildflower Woods of northeastern Indiana were the laboratory and inspiration for her stories, novels, essays, photography, and movies. Although there is evidence that her first book was 'Strike at Shane's', which was published anonymously, her first attributed novel, The Song of the Cardinal met with great commercial success. Her novels Freckles and A Girl of the Limberlost are set in the wooded wetlands and swamps of the disappearing central Indiana ecosystems she loved and documented. She eventually wrote over 20 books. Although Stratton-Porter wanted to focus on nature books, it was her romantic novels that made her famous and generated the finances that allowed her to pursue her nature studies. She was an accomplished author, artist and photographer and is generally considered to be one of the first female authors to promulgate public positions - in her case, conserving the Limberlost Swamp.'

CHAPTER VIII  Wherein Freckles Meets a Man of Affairs and Loses Nothing by the Encounter


 

"Weel, I be drawed on!" exclaimed Mrs. Duncan.

 

Freckles stood before her, holding the Angel's hat.

 

"I've been thinking this long time that ye or Duncan would see that sunbonnets werena braw enough for a woman of my standing, and ye're a guid laddie to bring me this beautiful hat."

 

She turned it around, examining the weave of the straw and the foliage trimmings, passing her rough fingers over the satin ties delightedly.  As she held it up, admiring it, Freckles' astonished eyes saw a new side of Sarah Duncan.  She was jesting, but under the jest the fact loomed strong that, though poor, overworked, and with none but God-given refinement, there was something in her soul crying after that bit of feminine finery, and it made his heart ache for her.  He resolved that when he reached the city he would send her a hat, if it took fifty dollars to do it.

 

She lingeringly handed it back to him.

 

"It's unco guid of ye to think of me," she said lightly,"but I maun question your taste a wee.  D'ye no think ye had best return this and get a woman with half her hair gray a little plainer headdress?  Seems like that's far ower gay for me.  I'm no' saying that it's no' exactly what I'd like to hae, but I mauna mak mysel' ridiculous.  Ye'd best give this to somebody young and pretty, say about sixteen.  Where did ye come by it, Freckles?  If there's anything been dropping lately, ye hae forgotten to mention it."

 

"Do you see anything heavenly about that hat?" queried Freckles, holding it up.

 

The morning breeze waved the ribbons gracefully, binding one around Freckles' sleeve and the other across his chest, where they caught and clung as if magnetized.

 

"Yes," said Sarah Duncan. "It's verra plain and simple, but it juist makes ye feel that it's all of the finest stuff.  It's exactly w