Vivian clutched her father’s hand tightly and gasped at the marvels that surrounded her. Her small little seven-year-old feet stood on tiptoe to see the latest flash of color, the most scrumptious food stand, the prettiest dancing maiden.

From the left came a medley of scents that somehow whirled together in one magnificent harmony – buttered pancakes, twisted cinnamon treats, puffed pastries, and homemade taffy, where you could watch a burly man sweat over turning the machine.

But the latest spectacle was just around the corner. Vivian signaled this to her father with a tug of the sleeve, and they went off.

And there she was, a lady so pure in her dancing, so jubilant in her smile and so clever with her little poems.

“Oh, please, father, please?” Vivian begged, and he slipped her a brass coin with a smile.

She laid it down in the pile of clothing where a few others were laid, wishing she could give more. But when she looked up, the performer woman was looking back, grinning as if they were friends.