She must not talk to strange men or women; she must not play with
strange children; and under no circumstances must she step foot
outside the Garden except to come home. Furthermore, Mary, who had
taken her to the Garden and left her, made very sure that she knew the
way home--that she knew just where Commonwealth Avenue came down to
Arlington Street across from the Garden. And always she must go home
when the clock in the church tower said it was half-past four.

Pollyanna went often to the Garden after this. Occasionally she went
with some of the girls from school. More often she went alone. In
spite of the somewhat irksome restrictions she enjoyed herself very
much. She could WATCH the people even if she could not talk to them;
and she could talk to the squirrels and pigeons and sparrows that so
eagerly came for the nuts and grain which she soon learned to carry to
them every time she went.

Pollyanna often looked for her old friends of that first day--the man
who was so glad he had his eyes and legs and arms, and the pretty
young lady who would not go with the handsome man; but she never saw
them. She did frequently see the boy in the wheel chair, and she
wished she could talk to him. The boy fed the birds and squirrels,
too, and they were so tame that the doves would perch on his head and
shoulders, and the squirrels would burrow in his pockets for nuts. But
Pollyanna, watching from a distance, always noticed one strange
circumstance: in spite of the boy's very evident delight in serving
his banquet, his supply of food always ran short almost at once; and
though he invariably looked fully as disappointed as did the squirrel
after a nutless burrowing, yet he never remedied the matter by
bringing more food the next day--which seemed most short-sighted to
Pollyanna.