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Dear, Old, Poor Mrs. Carson

Perhaps you didn't hear that Mrs. Carson died.
It happened last night, while everybody was sleeping. Even poor Mrs. Carson slept, dor hoe was she to know any different?
Her daughter, Meg Carson, says she was a gem, but most of the flower-folk who worked with her at the florist shop used to call her the "Royal Thorn." Of cours,e none of them would tell you that now, while "dear, old, poor Mrs. Carson"'s ghost is fresh and wandering along the streets.
She had a cat, I hear, with fleas to beat the band and a hiss to scare the skin off a skeleton. Poor, old, dear Fluffernutters can be seen galumphing around the neighbor's gardens, chewing tulips and vomiting azaleas all over the young, strapping Sergeant Porter's stoop. But no one will scold darling Fluffernutters, no - not while Mrs. Carson's ghost is fresh and wandering along the streets.
Mr. Carson has not been seen since this morning, when the ambulance pulled out of the Carson's drive without urgency. Dehlia told Prue, who called Marty who wrote John to say that he was seen scooting out the back door in a Hawaiian-print T-shirt, whistling and hauling out several suitcases. But this is only in whispers, of course, for no one would dare shout such a thing, no - not while Mrs. Carson's ghost is fresh and wandering along the streets.



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