The Unicorn Girl. Michael Kurland
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“In the field?” Robin, looking seriously concerned, peered out as a pair of melon-ripe breasts bounced by. “What would anyone be doing in our field? Where do you see them?” He stared off at the tree line. “Is someone sneaking about in our field?”
“Sneaking!” Dorothy yelped. She was suspiciously red about the ears. “The eye of man has seldom beheld such sneaking. Or of woman either!”
Aunt looked curiously at Dorothy. Chester and I looked curiously at Aunt, but she didn’t notice. “Girl,” she said sharply, “is something the matter? What is it? By your color, it’s either dyspepsia or indecision.” We had passed the picnickers and were bumping along toward the end of the field.
I looked back for one last glimpse, but the dust raised by the carriage obscured the past. It made the driver of the wagon behind us look like a World War I pilot continually coming out of a cloud bank. And hating it.
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