"I was wondering has anybody scribbled on the General's horse?—with chalk?"
Her father looked down at the Drive. "The General's there!" he announced, glancing back at her over a shoulder. "And his horse seems in fine fettle this morning, prancing, and arching his neck. And nobody's scribbled on him, which seems to please the General very much, for he's got his hat off—"
Gwendolyn sat up, her eyes rounding. "To hundreds and hundreds of soldiers!" she told her mother. "Only everybody can't see the soldiers."
Her father came back to her. "I can," he declared proudly. "Do you want to see 'em, too?—just a glimpse, mother! Come! We'll play the game together!" And the next moment, silk coverlet and all, Gwendolyn was swung up in his arms and borne to the window-seat.
"And, oh, there's the P'liceman!" she cried out.
"His name is Flynn," informed her father. "And twice this morning he's asked after you."
"Oh!" she stood up among the cushions to get a better view. "He takes lost little boys and girls to their fath-ers and moth-ers, daddy, and he takes care of the trees, and the flowers, and the fountains, and—- and the ob'lisk. But he only likes it up here in summer. In winter he likes to be Down-Town. And he ought to be Down-Town, 'cause he's got a really level head—"
"Wave to him now," said her father. "There! He's swinging his cap!—When we're out walking one of these times we'll stop and shake hands with him!"
"With the hand-organ man, too, fath-er? Oh, you like him, don't you? And you won't send him away!"
"Father won't."