I rushed into a jacket
and out of the house. In the far distance were disappearing two huge
balls of colour, orange and yellow, for all the world like
perambulating poppies of cyclopean breed.
"Johnny," said I to the nine-year-old son of my sister, "Johnny,
whenever little girls come into our field to pick poppies, you must
go down to them, and in a very quiet and gentlemanly manner, tell
them it is not allowed."
Warm days came, and the sun drew another blaze from the free-bosomed
earth. Whereupon a neighbour's little girl, at the behest of her
mother, duly craved and received permission from Bess to gather a few
poppies for decorative purposes. But of this I was uninformed, and
when I descried her in the midst of the field I waved my arms like a
semaphore against the sky.
"Little girl!" called I. "Little girl!"
The little girl's legs blurred the landscape as she fled, and in high
elation I sought Bess to tell of the potency of my voice. Nobly she
came to the rescue, departing forthwith on an expedition of
conciliation and explanation to the little girl's mother.
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