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"I insist on your going," rejoined the mother, "and that at once." “What is it, little John?” Wouldn’t any one suppose that Uncle Isaac was her uncle and not his, Johnny Blossom’s, the way she behaved?.

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"As you say, sire," responded the Marquis of Carabas, "for it is a meadow which yields an abundant crop every year." JOHNNY BLOSSOM was walking home from school. He carried his head high; his turned-up, freckled nose was held proudly in the air; his cap hung on the back of his head. Both hands were in his pockets, and his loud whistling waked the echoes as he strode through Jensen Alley. Perfectly splendid monthly report! Of course he knew it, word for word, and he said it over to himself again, as he had many times. “Tell me all about it.” “Thanks, fellows, thanks,” laughed the Chief. “It will be fine for all of us. But that’s enough of my news—what have you chaps been up to? Been bored?”.