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Updated: June 16, 2025
"No," repeated Puffy. "Not away from the woods and the stream and fishing, and hunting frogs and tadpoles and water-bugs. Why, he's the Rich Little Poor Boy!" "Oh! Well, then I'll come back!" She moved away slowly, looking over a shoulder at him as she went. "Don't forget! I'll come back!" "I'll be here," he answered. "And I'll let you use my willow fishpole." He waved a hand.
She deftly threw her fishpole up on to the roof of the wood shed and went around to the front of the house. There she found Mrs. Apgarth weeding in what had been Ruth's own flower beds. "Why, what a how-dye-do you did give us, Miss Ruth!" the woman exclaimed at sight of her. "I called you three times, and when you didn't answer I went to your door; and there you were gone!
He was in his shirtsleeves; his tender feet were incased in a pair of red-and-green carpet slippers. In the angle of his left arm he held his youngest grandchild, aged one and a half years, while his right hand carefully poised a china pipe, with a bowl like an egg-cup and a stem like a fishpole.
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