One summer afternoon, when the grassy slope before the house was untidy with fallen leaves, and sticks, and withered flowers, I asked Garry to go and bring the rake that we might clear away the rubbish.
So off he ran, and soon came back with an iron rake. Now, if you have ever tried one, you will know that an iron rake is not nearly as good for this purpose as a wooden rake, as it is heavy, and the teeth are so sharp that they tear the roots of the grass.
I used it for a while; but, in spite of all I could do, the teeth would catch the roots. At last Garry exclaimed, "Grandma, let me take it. I can make it all right."
I gave it to him, and the dear little boy took it behind a log, and was very busy and quiet for several minutes. Then I called, "Come, Garry, I don't believe you can help it."

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