A breeze, which had hurried across from New York for the purpose, blew her
hat off, but she recked not, and only tautened her hair ribbon with an
involuntary jerk just in time to prevent that going too.
A girl on a Pittsburgh block; bibulous, plastic, young; drinking the air in
great gulps, as she would later drink life.
It is Warble Mildew, expelled from Public School, and carolling with
laughter.
She had only attended for four weeks and they had been altogether wasted.
In her class there were several better girls, many brighter, one prettier,
but none fatter. The schoolgirls marveled at the fatness of her legs when,
skirts well tucked up, they all waded in the brook. Every cell of her body
was plump and she had dimples in her wrists.
And cheeks, like:
A satin pincushion pink,
Before rude pins have touched it.
Her eyes were of the lagoon blue found in picture postcards of Venice and
her hair was a curly yellow brush-heap. Sunning over with curls--you know,
sort of ringolets.
In fact, Warble was not unlike one of those Kewpie things, only she was
more dressed.
* * * * *
Expelled!
That's the way things were to come to Warble all her life. Fate laid on in
broad strokes--in great splashes--in slathers.
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