ANY MAN WITH so kindly a disposition toward Youth as has brought our Mayor forward in Branton Hills' history, may, without warning, run across an occasion which holds an opportunity for adding a bit of joy in living. So, as Gadsby stood, on a chilly fall day, in front of that big gla** building which was built for a city florist, admiring a charming display of blossoming plants, a small girl, still in Grammar School. said, shyly:—
“Hulloa.”
“Hulloa, you. School out?”
“On Saturdays, school is always out.”
“That's so; it is Saturday, isn't it? Going in?”
“In!! My, no! I can't go into that fairyland!”
“No? Why not, pray?”
“Aw! I dunno; but nobody has took kids
“Took? Took? Say, young lady, you must study your grammar book. Branton Hills schools don't —”
“Uh-huh; I know. But a kid just can't—”
“By golly! A kid can! Grab my hand.”
Now, many a fairy book has told, in glowing words, of childhood's joys and thrills at amazing sights; but no fairy book could show, in cold print, what Gadsby ran up against as that big door shut, and a child stood stock still—and dumb! Two small arms hung limply down, against a poor, oh, so poor skirt; and two big staring brown orbs took in that vision of floral glory, which is found in just that kind of a big gla** building on a cold, raw autumn day.
Gadsby said not a word; slowly strolling down a path amidst thousands of gladioli; around a turn, and up a path, along which stood pots and pots of fuchsias, salvias and cannas; and to a cross-path, down which was a big flat pansy patch, tubs of blossoming lilacs, and stiff, straight carnations. Not a word from Gadsby, for his mind was on that small bunch of rapturous joy just in front of him. But, finally, just to pry a bit into that baby mind, His Honor said:—
“Looks kind of good, don't it?”
A tiny form shrunk down about an inch; and an also tiny bosom, rising and falling in a thralldom of bliss, finally put forth a long, long,—
“0-h-h-h-h!!
It was so long that Gadsby was in a quandary as to how such small lungs could hold it.
Now in watching this tot thrilling at its first visit to such a world of floral glory, Gadsby got what boys call “a hunch ;” and said:—
“You don't find blossoms in your yard this month, do you?”
If you know childhood you know that thrills don't last long without a call for information. And Gadsby got such a call, with:—
“No, sir. Is this God's parlor?”
Now Gadsby wouldn't, for anything, spoil a childish thought; so said, kindly:—
“It's part of it. God's parlor is awfully big, you know.”
“My parlor is awfully small; and not any bloss — Oh! Wouldn't God —?”
Gadsby's hunch was now working, full tilt; and so, as this loving family man, having had four kids of his own, and this tot from a poor family with its “awfully small” parlor, — had trod this big gla** building's paths again and again; round and round, an almost monstrous sigh from an almost bursting tiny bosom, said
“I'll think of God's parlor, always and always and always!! and Gadsby, on glancing upwards, saw a distinct drooping and curving of many stalks; which is a plant's way of bowing to a child. And, at Branton Hills' following Council night a motion was— But I said Gadsby had a hunch. So, not only this schoolgirl's awfully small parlor, but many such throughout Branton Hills' poor districts, soon found a “big girl” from Gadsby's original Organization of Youth at its front door with plants from that big gla** building, in which our City Florist works in God's parlor. (P.S. Go with a child to your City Florist's big gla** building. It's a duty!)