JODIE was going downtown, running a stick along the fence palings, singing a wordless, tuneless song. Now and then a little wave of happiness broke over him, and he had to give a sudden skip, scattering the downy bright-eyed balls of feathers that were printing the snow with arrowy tracks. He paused to flatten his nose against the window of the Vienna Bakery, a pink tip of tongue coming out of the corner of his mouth as he looked at the glazed stickiness and plump raisins of the cinnamon bun. In the fish-shop window the goldfish drifted and turned in their tank, and a lobster languidly waved a claw from its couch of ice. He turned in at the grocer's for a few friendly words with Mr. Turben, and an olive from a tub of brine, and then went out and on, careful not to step on the cracks of the pavement, followed by old Shep.
The ladies of the Congregational church were hav ing a fair in an unrented store, and Jodie and Shep entered, and wandered through a forest of skirts, paying no attention to voices high in air inquiring who in the world let that dog in. Layer cakes, dressed dolls, sachets—a great many things to look at.
A lilac glove case, perfumed and padded, took Jodie's fancy. He wanted to buy it for his mother.
