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Rh “By golly! A kid can! Grab my hand.”

Now, many a fairy book has told, in glowing words, of childhood’s joys and thrills at amazing sights; but no fairy book could show, in cold print, what Gadsby ran up against as that big door shut, and a child stood stock still—and dumb! Two small arms hung limply down, against a poor, oh, so poor skirt; and two big staring brown orbs took in that vision of floral glory, which is found in just that kind of a big glass building on a cold, raw autumn day.

Gadsby said not a word; slowly strolling down a path amidst thousands of gladioli; around a turn, and up a path, along which stood pots and pots of fuchsias, and cannas; and to a cross-path, down which was a big flat pansy patch, tubs of blossoming lilacs, and stiff, straight carnations. Not a word from Gadsby, for his mind was on that small bunch of rapturous joy just in front of him. But, finally, just to pry a bit into that baby mind, His Honor said:—

“Looks kind of good, don’t it?”

A tiny form shrunk down about an inch; and an also tiny bosom, rising and falling in a thralldom of bliss, finally put forth a long, long,—

“O-h-h-h-h!!” [sic]