Now a kid is always a kid; and a kid knows just how any sport should go. So, just by luck, a tot who was to hold a gay ribbon didn't show up; and that big ring stood waiting, for that round-and-round march _just couldn't_ start with a ribbon hanging down! But a kid's mind is mighty quick and sharp; and a small tot of four had that kind of mind, saying:-- "Oh! That last ribbon! Isn't anybody going to hold it?" Now historians shouldn't laugh. Historians should only put down what occurs. But I, _your_ historian of Branton Hills, not only had to laugh, but to _roar_; for this tot, worrying about that hanging ribbon, saw our big pompous Council group looking on. Now a Council is nothing to a tot of four; just a man or two, standing around. So, trotting up and grasping Old Bill's hand, this tot said: "_You'll_ hold it, won't you?" "_What!!_" and Simpkins was all colors on throat and brow as Branton Hills' Council stood, grinning. But that baby chin was straining up, and a pair of baby arms was pulling, oh, _so_ hard; and, in a sort of coma, big, pompous, grouchy Councilman Simpkins took that hanging ribbon! A band struck up a quick march, and round and round trod that happy, singing ring, with Old Bill looming up as big as a mountain amongst its foothills! Laugh? I thought His Honor would _burst!_ As that ribbon spiral got wound, Simpkins, coming back, said, with a growl:-- "I was afraid I would tramp on a kid or two in that silly stunt." "It wasn't silly, Bill," said Gadsby. "It was _grand!_" And Tony Bandamita sang out:-- "Gooda work, Councilmanna! My four bambinos walka right in fronta you, and twista ribbons!" Simpkins, though, would only snort, and pass on. XX On a warm Sunday, Kathlyn and Julius, poking around in Branton Hills' suburbs, occasionally found an odd formation of fossilization, installing it amidst our Hall of Natural History's displays. Shortly following such an installation, a famous savant on volcanic activity noting a most propitious rock formation amongst Julius' groups, thought of cutting into it; for ordinary, most prosaic rocks _may_ contain surprising information; and, upon arriving at Branton Hills' railway station, ran across old Pat Ryan, czar of its trunk room. "Ah, my man! I want to find a lapidary." "A what?" "It isn't a 'what,' it's a lapidary." "Lapidary, is it? Lapidary, lapidary, lapi--lapi--la--. No, I----" Now this savant was in a hurry, and said, snappily:-- "But a city as big as Branton Hills _has_ a lapidary, I trust!" "Oh, Branton Hills has a lot of things. But, wait a bit! It ain't a lavatory what you want, is it?" But at this instant, to old Pat's salvation, Kathlyn, passing by, said:-- "All right, Pat. I know about this;" and, both taking a taxi, old Pat walking round and round, scratching his bald crown, was murmuring: