I remember a Battersea little girl who wheeled her large baby sister stuffed into a doll’s perambulator. When questioned on this course of conduct, she replied: “I haven’t got a dolly, and Baby is pretending to be my dolly.”
-- G.K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles (1909)
Now that’s … meta.
~
Marya strolled by with her little toy dog, who last time had been nameless, and gave me an update.
“I named him ‘Cutie’.”
“Ah! Because he’s cute.”
“Yes.”
“Nomen omen,” I refrained from saying.
~
She held forth, in her tiny hand, two little flowers side by side: a buttercup, and a clover-flower. “Look what I made for mommy -- a bouquet!”
Two tiny flowers -- one almost a weed -- just barely make bouquet-hood: but they do. They compose, indeed, Minimalist Bouquet, reduced to its essentials. Not for her the gaudy floral excess of a Mafia funeral.
[For the complete dossier of Marya's special adventures, click here.]
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