"Look how he licks it up. My! I'll bet it's good!"
"He's a gulpin' to beat the band," returned Lizzie.
"He never hed it before, I'll bet."
"Or you nuther, Mattie Black."
"You can't talk much," answered Mattie.
By this time Whitey had cleared up his spread pretty thoroughly. Not a drop lingered in the circle at the bottom of the box and the pavement was dry.
Whitey walked over to the side of the building and lay down in the sun. He put his nose between his paws. His body was as thin and forlorn as ever, but away at the tip of his pink, shabby tail was a little, short-lived wag. It was the language of gratitude and hope. It had been absent for days—ever since he was lost. The little girl who had caused it was riding home in her carriage, but the alley folks took note of it and they were appeased. They no longer envied the dog.
As for Whitey, the rich cream worked its work. As he lay in the sun he felt new hopes and plans revive. Of a sudden he remembered a bakery where he had chanced to get some plate scrapings. He would go again. And go he did. His body and his hopes were alike nourished with his recent treat. Whitey actually walked over to the bakery alley with a decided and prolonged wag to his tail. The ice cream had placed it there. It really made the turning point for better times for Whitey.
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| FROM KŒHLER'S MEDICINAL-PFLANZEN. | POPPY. | CHICAGO: A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER. |
