(continued from page 3…)It was a cold crisp evening when the Farmer came and opened the gates. The Patch stirred restlessly, the soft rustle of leaves rising into the air as the pumpkins strained to get a better view. There were People. Lots of People. They came in groups, the larger ones often lead by the smaller ones as they threaded through the patch, pausing to look at one pumpkin then another. The Little Pumpkin watched them from half behind his heavy Friend, who was plump and asleep in her row of leaves and vines. He saw that the little ones, the children, were picking the pumpkins and carrying them away. An ember of hope began to glow inside him. He wanted to be picked too.
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