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 glass 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 in."
"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 glass 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,--
"_O-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 glass
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 glass building, in which our City
Florist works in God's parlor. (P.S. _Go_ with a child to _your_ City
Florist's big glass building. It's a _duty!_)