"Once a little kid named Peaches, Swelled my heart until it eatches. If you think I'd trade her for a dog, Your think-tank has slipped a cog!"
Peaches laughed, stretching her hands as usual. Mickey stooped for her caress, scattering the ribbons over her as he arose. She gasped in delighted amazement.
"Oh! Mickey! Where did you ever? Mickey, where did you get them?
Mickey, you didn't st——?"
"You just better choke on that, Miss!" yelled Mickey. "No I didn't st——! And I don't st——! And nothing I ever bring you will be st——! And you needn't ever put no more st's—— at me. See?"
"Mickey, I didn't mean that! Course I know you wouldn't! Course I know you couldn't! Mickey, that's the best poetry piece yet! Did you bring the slate?"
"Sure!" said Mickey, somewhat mollified, but still injured. "I must have dropped it with the banquet!"
Peaches pushed away the billow of colour, taking the slate. Her fingers picking at the string reminded Mickey of sparrow feet; but he watched until she untied and removed the paper which he folded to lay away. She picked up the pencil, meditating.
"Mickey!" she said. "Make my hand do a word!"
"Sure!" said Mickey. "What do you want to write first, Flowersy-girl?"
Peaches looked at him reproachfully.