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“And Jean and Jimmy, too.” “Yeh, we went to the shootin’ gallery, an’ the amuseum, an’ got inter a little square cage an’ shot away up to the top of an orful high buildin’ an’ got a sparrer’s eye view of the city.” “But where does our fun come in? Girls don’t build railroads,” Bess complained..
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“Murder! Murder!” he shouted with all his strength; and his boy’s voice reached far up and down the lonely distances. He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back— “Yes, I seen them an’ smelt them, too; they shore ’d delight the heart of an Eskermo, Betty.” “A cat tablecloth!” the little girl laughed..
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