When Bryce Cardigan was about fourteen years old there occurred an
important event in his life. In a commendable effort to increase his
income he had laid out a small vegetable garden in the rear of his
father's house, and here on a Saturday morning, while down on his
knees weeding carrots, he chanced to look up and discovered a young
lady gazing at him through the picket fence. She was a few years his
junior, and a stranger in Sequoia. Ensued the following conversation:
"Hello, little boy."
"Hello yourself! I ain't a little boy."
She ignored the correction. "What are you doing?"
"Weedin' carrots. Can't you see?"
"What for?"
Bryce, highly incensed at having been designated a little boy by this
superior damsel, saw his opportunity to silence her. "Cat's fur for
kitten breeches," he retorted--without any evidence of originality,
we must confess. Whereat she stung him to the heart with a sweet
smile and promptly sang for him this ancient ballad of childhood:
"What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Snakes and snails,
And puppy dog's tails,
And that's what little boys are made of."
Bryce knew the second verse and shrivelled inwardly in anticipation
of being informed that little girls are made of sugar and spice and
everything nice.
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