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quite breathless, and trying very hard to attract her attention. "Oh, it's you, is it?" she said, stopping short and looking at him pleasantly.
"Yes, it's me," said the Highlander, sitting down on the ground as if he were very much fatigued. "I've been wanting to speak to you privately for a very long time."
"What about?" said Dorothy, wondering what was coming now.
"Well," said the Highlander, blushing violently and appearing to be greatly embarrassed, "you seem to be a very kind-hearted person, and I wanted to show you some poetry I've written."
"Did you compose it?" said Dorothy, kindly.
"No," said the Highlander; "I only made it up. Would you like to hear it?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Dorothy, as gravely as she could; "I should like to hear it very much."
"It's called"--said the Highlander, lowering his voice confidentially and looking cautiously about--"it's called 'The Pickle and the Policeman';" and, taking a little paper out of his pocket, he began:
"There was a little pickle and his name was John--"
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Dorothy, "I don't think that will do at all."
"Suppose I call him George?" said the Highlander, gazing reflectively at his paper. "It's got to be something short, you know."
"But you mustn't call him anything," said Dorothy, laughing. "Pickles don't have any names."
"All right," said the Highlander; and, taking out a pencil, he began repairing his poetry with great industry. He did a great deal of writing, and a good deal of rubbing out with his thumb, and finally said triumphantly:
"There was a little pickle and he hadn't any name!"
"Yes, that will do very nicely," said Dorothy; and the Highlander, clearing his voice, read off his poetry with a great flourish:
"There was a little pickle and he hadn't any name-- In this respect, I'm just informed, all pickles are the same. A large policeman came along, a-swinging of his club, And took that little pickle up a