Again the woman idled for a moment, looking through the open doorway toward the small, misshapen figure of her eldest child as it swung swiftly forward upon its “wooden feet.” The baby’s soap-box wagon rattled and bumped along behind, bouncing his plump body about, and drawn by Mary Jane in the only manner possible to her—with a strap across her chest. She needed both her hands just then to support herself upon her crutches; for her lower limbs were useless and swung heavily between these crutches—a leaden weight from which she never could be free.
Even so, there were few who could travel as rapidly as Mary Jane and this morning she was especially eager to get on. Because down at the pretty park upon which her own dingy street terminated, the children’s “Playgrounds” had been opened for the summer and the small gardens given out. She was anxious to see the planting and seed-sowing, by the tiny farmers of this free kindergarten, and down in her heart was a faint hope that even to her, a girl, might a bit of land be assigned; where she, too, could raise some of the wonderful vegetables which would be her very own when the autumn came and the small crops were harvested.
The hope was so deep and so intense, that she had to stop, turn about, shake up the baby and tell him about it.
“You see, Baby Bump, they don’t give ’em out to just girls. Only I’m not a regular plain kind of girl, I’m a crippley sort. That might make a difference. Though there’s Hattie Moran, she’s lame, too. Not very lame, Baby, only a little lame. She doesn’t have to have crutches, she just goes hoppety-pat, hoppety-pat, easy like. Sophia Guttmacher, she’s a hunchback, same’s me, course, but she can walk. Besides that she doesn’t want a garden and I do. As for Ernest Knabe, his foot’s just twisted and that’s all. Then, too, he’s a boy. He could have one if he wanted. He’d have to dig one, I guess, if it wasn’t for his foot. Oh! Baby dear. Do you s’pose I might—I might, maybe, get one?”
“Goo, goo,” murmured the infant, encouragingly, and vainly trying to bring his own foot within reach of his mouth.
“Oh! you sweet! You can’t do that, you know. You’re far too fat. And I declare, all the other children have gone on while I’ve stood here just talking to you. That won’t do, sir, much as I love you. Sit up, now, there’s sister’s little man, and I’ll hurry up.”
But just then, Baby made a final, desperate effort to taste his toes, lost his balance, and rolled forward out of his box, as a ball might have done.
Mary Jane, burst into a peal of laughter which recalled the other children to the spot and she explained between breaths:
“The cute little fellow was trying to make ‘huckleberry-bread’; I do believe he was, the darling! Well, he’s so round it doesn’t matter which way he tumbles, and he’s so soft nothing ever hurts him. Does it, precious?”
They all lent a hand in setting the infant right again. Several holding the soap-box level, a couple supporting Mary Jane without her crutches which left her arms free to lift and replace the dislodged baby. When things were once more in order the caravan started onward afresh.