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“Yes, we love our grand old Norway,” Johnny Blossom whistled again with great vigor. “I’m sorry that I inflicted it all upon you, Bob. I was sort of acting the cry baby, wasn’t I?” There was no need to talk; in fact, the glorious beauty of the panorama spread before him would have made it almost impossible to talk even if Bob had wanted to..

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This boat that he was making was going to be a fine one—Johnny Blossom held it out and peered sharply at it, first lengthwise, then sidewise—the finest boat any one had ever whittled. Every one who saw it would say, “Who made that beautiful, graceful boat?” Well, here was the boy who could do it! “Oh, it’s a Mozambique stamp, Aunt Grenertsen,” explained Johnny Blossom earnestly. “It is awfully rare. There isn’t another one in the whole town, Aunt Grenertsen.” My, oh my! All that money for a fishing rod, thought Johnny, still dancing gleefully around Grandmother. But all at once Grandmother started up eagerly and began to talk fast: “And I sort of led him on,” interrupted the boy. “I’d like it a heap if you’d let him go.”.