greeting to the ashman, the scissors-grinder, the Italian and Chinese
vegetable-vendors, the rag-sack-and-bottle man, and the other
familiar figures of the neighbourhood.

It was at the end of a happy, helpful day that Mistress Mary stood in
the front door and looked out over her kingdom.

There was a rosy Swedish girl sitting on the floor of a shop window
opposite and washing the glass. She had moved the fresh vegetables
aside and planted herself in the midst of them. There she sat among
the cabbages and turnips and other sweet things just out of the
earth; piles of delicate green lettuce buds, golden carrots bursting
into feathery tops, ruddy beets, and pink-checked. It was pretty to
see the honest joy of her work and the interest of her parted lips,
when, after polishing the glass, it shone as crystal clear as her own
eyes. A milkman stopping to look at her (and small wonder that he
did) poured nearly a quart of cream on the ground, and two children
ran squabbling under the cart to see if they could catch the
drippings in their mouths. They were Atlantic and Pacific Simonson
with Marm Lisa, as usual, at their heels. She had found her way to
this corner twice of late, because things happened there marvellous
enough to stir even her heavy mind. There was a certain flight of
narrow, rickety steps leading to a rickety shanty, and an adjacent
piece of fence with a broad board on top. Flower-pots had once stood
there, but they were now lying on the ground below, broken into
fragments. Marm Lisa could push the twins up to this vantage-ground,
and crawl up after them. Once ensconced, if they had chosen the
right time of day, interesting events were sure to be forthcoming.
In a large playground within range of vision, there were small
children, as many in number as the sands of the seashore. At a given