And dolls,—­soft, cotton or woolly dolls for little babies to play with, and soft, cuddly bears and lambs.  Rattles, of course, and bath-tub toys, and all sorts of infants’ novelties.

Patty, happy as a butterfly, hovered over her treasures.  She wore the immaculate white linen garb of a nurse, and very sweet and fair she looked.  Later, Fleurette was to grace the booth and attract all observers by her marvellous baby charm.

At high noon the bazaar was opened with a flourish of trumpets and a fanfaronade by the band.  Farnsworth had given the services of a first class band as his donation, and the musicians made good.

The scene was one of varied attractions.  The place itself was lovely with its wealth of flower gardens and shrubbery and the unique and elaborate booths here and there among the trees made a striking picture.

Betty was queen of the soda fountain.  A really, truly soda fountain had been procured, and it was attended by white uniformed servitors who were trained to the work, but Betty was the presiding genius and invited her customers to sample her beverages, with free advice as to which flavours and combinations she thought the best.

Raymond Gale was a general supervisor of several of the enterprises.

He had in charge the moving-picture men who had expressed a desire to get some scenes of the gay throngs and were willing to pay well for the privilege.

“You like the ‘movies,’” he called out to Azalea, “come over here and get into the game.”

“Can’t,” she called back.  “I have to be on duty at my wigwam.”

“Oh, come along; the wigwam won’t run away.  At least promenade up and down once with me.”

So Azalea came, laughingly, and the two walked grandiloquently into the focus of the camera.

“And there is a man making phonograph records,” young Gale went on.  “Come over there, Zaly, and we’ll have a joust of words, and record it on the sands of time!”

“What do you mean?” asked Azalea, interestedly, for she had no knowledge of some of the performances going on.

She went with Raymond and found a crowd waiting at the booth where the phonograph man was doing business.  His plan was to make a record for any customer who cared to sing, recite or soliloquise for him.  Mothers gladly brought their infant prodigies to “speak pieces” and went away proudly carrying the records that could be played in their homes for years to come.  Aspiring young singers made records of their favourite songs.  One young girl played the violin for a record.

Taking their turn, Raymond and Azalea had what he called an impromptu scrap.  A few words of instruction were enough for Azalea’s dramatic instinct to grasp his meaning, and they had a lively tiff followed by a sentimental “making-up” that was good enough for a vaudeville performance, and which Azalea knew would greatly amuse Patty and Bill when they should hear the record.