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'We shall meet the Morning Spiders, The fairy-cotton riders, Each mounted on a star's rejected ray; With their tiny nets of feather They collect our thoughts together, And on strips of windy weather Bring the Day. ... 'That's stolen from you or Daddy, Mother began to say to Rogers but was unable to complete the flash. The thought lay loose behind her in the air.
An insect clung to her duster, and she shook it out of the window with the crumbs and bits of cotton gathered from the table-cloth. 'Get out, you Morning Spider, You fairy-cotton rider! she sang, and at the same minute Mother opened the bedroom door and peeped in, astonished at the unaccustomed music.
It then gets knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled, And long before I get it straight again, unwumbled, To make my verse or story, The interfering sun has risen And burst with passion through my silky prison To melt it down in dew, Like so much spider-gossamer or fairy-cotton. Don't you? I call it rotten! A hushed silence followed. Eyes sought the fire. No one spoke for several minutes.
It was a cloudless July morning the noon of summer by air and light as well as by the calendar. Even the barest tracts of the bog-land, which vary their aspect as little as may be from shifting season to season, were flecked with golden furze-blossom, and whitened with streaming tufts of fairy-cotton, and sun-warmed herbs were fragrant underfoot.
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