Clover beamed up at Miss Calloway, 'the angel of apples', and held out a small wind-up toy he'd hidden in his pocket. Even his father hadn't known he was going to do this, and Clover felt proud of himself as he held up the toy and said to Miss Calloway, "I want you to have this," just like he'd seen adults do when giving gifts to their dear ones, "for your babies when they can play with me!" He paused, scrunched up his nose as he thought, then added, still cheerful, "They're prob'ly too young to play now, but maybe in a few months!" For Clover, a month was practically a year, and so he assumed three months or so would be plenty of time for the pair of tiny beings to become his age, if they really tried hard to grow. Clover knew trying to get bigger worked, because for the last three weeks, he'd been stretching his arms up to the sky whenever he remembered (a sporadic exercise) to make him taller, and the last time his Pa had measured him against the doorway, he was another inch taller! Puffing up his chest at the memory of his success, Clover stood up on his tip-toes as he offered the toy to Miss Calloway, shifting constantly on those toes to retain his balance, a difficult thing to do when one's chest is puffed out with pride.