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“The Scarlet Ibis” by James Hurst It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree. The flower garden was stained with rotting brown magnolia petals, and ironweeds grew rank amid the purple phlox. The five o’clocks by the chimney still
"It's a scarlet ibis," Daddy said. Sadly, we all looked at the bird. How many miles had it traveled to die like this, in our yard, beneath the bleeding tree? Doodle knelt beside the ibis. "I'm going to bury him." As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. It was time for
“THE SCARLET IBIS” by James Hurst It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born, that the Ibis lit in the bleeding tree. It’s strange that all this is still so clear to me, now that summer has long since fled. A grindstone stands where that bleeding tree stood, and sometimes,
Summer was dead, but autumn had not yet been born when the ibis came to the bleeding tree. It's strange that all this is so clear to me, now that time has had its way. But sometimes (like right now) I sit in the cool green parlor, and I remember Doodle.
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The Scarlet Ibis JAMES HURST Adapted from: Elements of Literature: Third Course. Austin: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. 2003. I t was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree.1 The flower garden was strained with rotting brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank2 amid the ...
