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When Moses, accompanied by his small attendant, returned to his unfinished task in the garden, he found Betty still at work. She was weeding the pansy bed. St. Elmo clapped his chubby hands in delight. “Elmo saw some gween and white faywies,” he fabricated, “and wanted Mudgie to see them too.” He tried to hold it from falling, but could not. It seemed as if his arms would be pulled out of their sockets. It would fall short—he must hold on to it, not let it strike below, for the noise would betray them too soon; and—the men in the wagon were passing!.

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“’Cause I love you, ’n’ I hope the edges’ll be all pink like my mornin’-glories.” “O, Mar, jist a teeny-weeny brown crust, it carn’t hurt me.” As far as general knowledge went, Betty was a complete encyclopedia ahead of Moses. That youth’s brains had too many labyrinthine passages through which knowledge meandered and got lost to ever lay claim to erudition. As for creative ability, Betty imbibed ideas at every pore. She took odd moments of her busy days and patching them together made hours of creative joy, a sort of mental Joseph’s coat of rainbow brightness. “They’d look purtier, Glory, ef you’d put more colors in,” commented Mrs. Wopp..