So then we said we'd go. And I suppose you won't believe that the Governor sung out "let the little young gentlemen ride with me, if you please, madam."
So we did; we rode with the Governor. And he talked to us, and looked just the same as other folks, only not so handsome as some. We sat side of him at dinner, too, because he said for us to; and after dinner some of the folks put us in their speeches. And I hope we didn't feel too stuck up about it, though my father he said 'twas enough to turn any boy's head.
So we made something out of it after all; and Guy said, what a good thing it was we didn't have a license, and had to go back just to where the babies would be in the road, or else they'd have been run over. And most all of Mr. Pressy's gingerbread and things bounced out along the way, so he didn't have much to sell; but he whipped the horse to pay for it. And that man that wouldn't let us have any license stood around all day and looked as if he thought somebody ought to give him a dollar. And we is satisfied, I and Guy are, because we made quite a lot besides what we ate, and the babies didn't get run over to boot. But don't you believe that the Hollander woman shook the two poor little chaps up like a breeze because they got their frocks muddy. That's what the folks said, anyhow, and it's just like what some women would do, I think.
'Tisn't likely we'll ever get the pony the way I said at first, because the circus man didn't tell us the town where Mr. David Solomon lives, and we don't know. And I don't know as I ought to tell this story, because it's about myself so much; but maybe you needn't print my name to it, and then folks won't know it's me.
Six little goslings without any shoes,
But to make them the shoemaker has to refuse;
For he has no last that will fit their queer feet,
And in great disappointment they'll have to retreat.
And now, Baby Curlyhead, what shall we do
With six little goslings without any shoe?
We take their soft down to make Baby a bed
On which he can pillow his soft little head.