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IO
IO JOHNNY BLOSSOM
grew and to see whether Katrina had gathered
any. But day after day everything remained
exactly the same. There hung the apples still —
the only change being that they grew riper and
riper and more tempting. Aunt Grenertsen
sat gazing out of her window from behind the
plants, and old Katrina, grumpy as ever, stood
at the kitchen window peering over the sash
curtain, in exactly the same way every day.
He was just sick and tired of seeing those
apples in that good-for-nothing garden.
Good-for-nothing it certainly was, and very, very old.
There was only one apple tree besides the one
Johnny was so interested in, but its fruit could
scarcely be called apples at all. He would call
them croquet balls — such hard green things
as they were — hard as rocks. Of course if
any of them were on the ground, he bit into
them. In fact, he had eaten a good many of
them first and last, but they were horrid things,
anyway. •
The currants in Aunt Grenertsen’s garden
were nothing to speak of, either. Awfully sour,
small pinheads! The raspberries were small,
too, but at any rate, they were sweet.
Not another thing was to be found in that
garden — not a decent sugar pea nor a carrot
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