The Girl with Fountains in Her Shoes

I was walking down Emerald Street on a Sunday morning, an early autumn day that fairly rang with the singing of meadowlarks in the weed fields. She was standing in the center of a patch of fresh-plowed ground, soaking it with a hose, and trodding up and down in a pair of torn tennis shoes to mash the clods. She was smiling like a child and staring down at the rich brown mud and humming to herself.

As I watched, she turned the hose full force upon her feet and sang out in rare delight; for streams gushed merrily from holes in the ends of her shoes. "I've got spouts in my shoes!" she laughed.