Afternoon comes,--little feet are heard climbing up the stair,
and Ingrid's name is called. The door opens, and two flushed and
breathless messengers stand on the threshold. "We've brung you a
birfday present," they cry; "it's a book, and we made it all our own
se'ves, and all the chilluns helped and made somefin' to put in it.
Miss Mary's down stairs mindin' the babies, and she sends you her
love. Good-by! Happy birfday!"
"Happy birthday" indeed! Golden, precious, love-crowned birthday! Was
ever such a book, so full of sweet messages and tender thoughts!
Ingrid knows how baby Tim must have labored to sew that red circle,
how John Jacob toiled over that weaving-mat, and Elsa carefully folded
the drove of little pigs. Everybody thought of her, and all the
"chilluns" helped, and how dear is the tangible outcome of the
thoughts and the helping!
* * * * *
Far back in the childhood of the world, the long-haired savage,"
woaded, winter-clad in skins," went roaming for his food wherever he
might find it.
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