XVIII
Sarah, walking along past City Park on a raw, cold night, found a tiny,—oh so tiny,—puppy, whining, shaking and crying with cold. Picking up that small bunch of babyhood, Sarah was in quandary as just what to do; but Priscilla Standish, coming along, said:—
“Oh! Poor baby!! Who owns him, Sarah?”
“I don’t know; but say! Wouldn’t your Ma”
“My Ma would!! Bring him along, and wrap your cloak around him. It’s awfully cold for so young a puppy.”
So Lady Standish, with that “back-yard zoo” soon had his quaking babyship lapping good warm milk, and a stumpy tail wagging as only a tiny puppy’s stumpy tail can wag. Along towards six o’clock a vigorous pounding on Lady Standish’s front door brought Priscilla, to find Old Bill Simpkins with a tiny, wildly sobbing girl of about four. Walking into Lady Standish’s parlor, Simpkins said:—
“This kid has lost a-a-a-crittur; I think it was a pup, wasn’t it, kid?”
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