Without the humor or the period detail of Cohen's The Carp in the Bathtub (1972) though with the same feeling for an earlier, ethnic city childhood, Cohen--as Florrie--remembers the year ""Mama and Papa gave me a (black cast iron) stove for my birthday. . . just like Mama's only much, much smaller."" But stern Papa, whose tavern they live behind, almost spoils the day by forbidding her ever to build a fire in the stove--and when one day she does, at the urging of older Gladys from upstairs, flames pour out and she runs away rather than face his wrath. When Papa finds Florrie, night has come and she's alone and lost, having followed a carousel through the West New York streets until even it went to bed. He carries her home, never scolding, and ""never again did I think he didn't love me."" An old story with no new twists, but fondly particularized.