standing day upon which a bridal gown is laid out in all its glory on his parlor sofa, and a small mob of girls, and occasionally a woman or two, is rushing in and out, up and down stairs, and finding as much to do as a commonly known microscopic “bug” of prodigious hopping ability finds at a dog show. Rush! rush! rush! A thousand thoughts and a million words, (this crowd was all girls, you know!) making that parlor as noisy as a saw mill! But Gadsby laughingly staid out of it all, watching big armfuls of bloom and many a curious looking box go in through that front door; flying hands rapidly untying glorious ribbon wrappings.
Now, upon all such occasions you will find, if you snoop around in dining room or pantry, an astonishing loaf of culinary art, all fancy frosting, and chuck full of raisins and citron, which is always cut upon such an auspicious occasion; and it is as hard to avoid naming it, in this story, as it is to withstand its assault upon your stomach.
Oh hum! Now what? Aha! May Fourth, lasting, as Nancy said, “for about a million months,” finally got Gadsby’s dining room clock around to six-fifty; only about an hour, now, to that grand march past practically half of Branton Hills’ population; for all who couldn’t jam into that commodious church would stand around in a
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