I was trying to think what I was going to tell my mother and father. I could think of nothing.
Finally I decided I would just tell them the truth, and with the help of the new overalls, cloth, and candy, I would weather the storm.
My pups were having a big time playing.
With their little front paws locked around each other, they were growling, rolling, and chewing on one another.
They looked so cute, I laughed out loud. While I was watching their romping, the thought came, “I haven’t named them.”
I went over the list of names. For him, I tried “Red,” “Bugle,” “Lead,” name after name as before.
For her, I tried “Susie,” “Mabel,” “Queen,” all kinds of girl names.
None seemed to fit. Still mumbling names over and over, I glanced up. There, carved in the white bark of a sycamore tree, was a large heart.
In the center of the heart were two names, “Dan” and “Ann.” The name Dan was a little larger than Ann.
It was wide and bold. The scar stood out more. The name Ann was small, neat, and even. I stared unbelieving—for there were my names.
They were perfect. I walked over and picked up my pups. Looking at him, I said, “Your name is Dan. I’ll call you Old Dan.”
Looking at her, I said, “Your name, little girl, is Ann. I’ll call you Little Ann.” It was then I realized it was all too perfect.
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