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Rh Pollyanna gave her head a dubious shake.

"Well, I'm afraid maybe I don't know all of 'em," she admitted. "Are they all—in books?"

The boy nodded.

"I've got 'em here—some of 'em," he said. "I like to read 'em over and over. There's always something new in 'em. Besides, I hain't got no others, anyway. These were father's. Here, you little rascal—quit that!" he broke off in laughing reproof as a bushy-tailed squirrel leaped to his lap and began to nose in his pockets. "Gorry, guess we'd better give them their dinner or they'll be tryin' to eat us," chuckled the boy. "That's Sir Lancelot. He's always first, you know."

From somewhere the boy produced a small pasteboard box which he opened guardedly, mindful of the numberless bright little eyes that were watching every move. All about him now sounded the whir and flutter of wings, the cooing of doves, the saucy twitter of the sparrows. Sir Lancelot, alert and eager, occupied one arm of the wheel chair. Another bushy-tailed little fellow, less venturesome, sat back on his haunches five feet away. A third squirrel chattered noisily on a neighboring tree-branch.

From the box the boy took a few nuts, a small roll, and a doughnut. At the latter he looked longingly, hesitatingly.

"Did you—bring anything?" he asked then.

"Lots—in here," nodded Pollyanna, tapping the paper bag she carried.

"Oh, then perhaps I will eat it to-day," sighed the