And I was just wonderin’ how I could relieve my feelin’s without eatin’ a fuzzy worm, like the small boy that nobody loved, when I hears footsteps approachin’ through the shrubb’ry. I looks up, to find myself bein’ inspected by a weedy, long legged youth. He’s an odd lookin’ kid, with dull reddish hair, so many freckles that his face looks rusty, and a pair of big purple black eyes that gazes at me serious.
“Well, son,” says I, “where did you drop from?”
“My name is Harold Burbank Fitzmorris,” says he, “and I am visiting with my mother on the adjoining estate.”
“That sounds like a full description, Harold,” says I. “Did you stray off, or was you sent?”
“I trust you don’t mind,” says he; “but I am exploring.”
“Explore away then,” says I, “so long as you don’t tramp through the flowerbeds.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think of injuring them,” says he. “I am passionately fond of flowers.”
“You don’t say!” says I.
“Yes,” says Harold, droppin’ down easy on the bench alongside of me. “I love Nature in all her moods. I am a poet, you know.”
“Eh!” says I. “Ain’t you beginning sort of young?”