noon
Blanche Devine -- snipping her sweet peas ; peering anxiously at the Virginia creeper that clung with such fragile fingers to the trellis ; watering the flower baskets that hung from her porch -- was blissfully unconscious of the disapproving eyes . I wish one of us had just stopped to call good morning to her over the fence , and to say in our neighbourly , small town way : `` My , ai n't this a scorcher ! So early too ! It 'll be fierce by noon ! '' But we did not . I think perhaps the evenings must have been the loneliest for her . The summer evenings in our little town are filled with intimate , human , neighbourly sounds .