Molly was six years old; a plump, roly-poly little girl with long,
crimpy golden hair and great blue eyes. She had ever so many brothers;
Fred, a year older than herself, and who went to the Kindergarten with
her, was her favorite. Molly was very fond of swinging on the front-yard
gate; a forbidden pleasure, by the way. This is the preface to my story
about Molly.
One windy, sunny day the little girl was "riding to Boston" on the front
gate; she had swung out and let the wind blow her back again a half
dozen times, and she was happy as a captain on the high seas, enjoying
the swaying, dizzy motion.
Every little girl--and many a boy--has swung on a gate, standing tip-toe
on the lower bar, leaning the chin on the upper bar; and as the gate
swayed outward, watched the brick pavement rush under foot like a swift
stream, all the time dreaming she was a steamboat.
[Illustration]
In some such position, with some such thoughts. I suppose, was our Molly
when a strange cry reached her ears.
"Brothers for sale? Brothers for sale? Got any brothers for sale?"
"Dot a plenty," said Molly as the gate swung plump against the oddest
great man.
He was very tall, wore a huge fur cap, and great coat that reached from
his chin to his ankles. The pockets were evidently so full that they
bulged out on all sides, and his red belt was stuck full of every odd
toy imaginable.
He had besides, an enormous pack on his back.
Molly's eyes, always wholly devoted to the business of seeing, observed
all this.