Percy Dale was a dear pink-and-white little boy, with a tangle of golden ringlets so long and silk that strangers often stopped him on the street to admire them. He wouldn't have cared, only they sometimes stroked his head and called him a "sweet little girl." Now Percy loved little girls; but to be called a girl himself was not at all to his liking. It always sent him running to his mamma to beg her to cut off his dreadful curls that made people say he was "a little girl boy."
"Oh, no, no, darling, mamma can't shear her pet lamb," she would answer with a kiss; "but by-and-b we'll ask Miss Olive to do it."
"By-and-by" was slow in coming, and Percy's fourth birthday found him with curls longer and lovelier than ever. That morning, as he stood by the gate, an old lady, passing, said to him, smilingly: "Won't you sell me your beautiful, bright curls, little Miss? My little grand-daughter hasn't any."