Eliza Orne White

JANUARY
Molly's Birthday

M OLLY'S birthday came on the first of January with that of the year. It was so near to Christmas that she always felt a little uncertain as to whether she should have any presents.

"Now that you are getting to be such a big girl," her father said the night before her birthday, "I think that Christmas presents are enough."

"Don't tease the poor child, Henry," said her mother.

"I shall expect to see a very different looking person to-morrow," her brother Turner observed. "The human body changes entirely once in seven years, and as this is your seventh birthday, the change will undoubtedly begin in the morning."

"But I am only going to be six," Molly objected.

"That is true; but all the same it is your seventh birthday."

Molly was never sure when Turner was joking and when he was in earnest, so she looked at him somewhat doubtfully as she put up her face to be kissed. She then bade her grown-up sister Ruth and her ten year old sister Flora good-night, and went upstairs with her mamma.

Molly woke early the next morning, so early that the daylight was only just beginning to come in at the windows. Her aunt Mary, whose room she shared, was still fast asleep, for she had been to a New Year's party the night before. Molly crept stealthily out of bed and ran to the long looking-glass that stood near one of the windows. It was light enough for her to see that she was not in the least changed.

She was still a very small girl, and her curly hair was as tangled as it always was in the morning. She had never really expected to be different, but she had had a faint hope that she might be a little taller, and that her hair would have straightened in the night. She went back to bed and stayed there quietly for some minutes, hoping that her aunt would wake of her own accord, for Molly had learned by sad experience that she did not like to be disturbed in the morning. It was growing lighter every moment, and Molly was so anxious to go downstairs to see her presents that at last she could stay still no longer. She sprang out of bed and began to dress in haste. She got on pretty well until she tried to fasten the waist of her gown, which seemed to have altogether too many buttons. She wondered why it was that grown people, who had long arms, had gowns that buttoned in front, while the gowns of little children, who had such short arms, always buttoned behind.

At this moment her aunt opened her eyes. "Molly Benson, what are you doing?" she cried.

"I'm dressing myself," said Molly proudly, "for I am in a hurry to see my presents."

"Dressing yourself! I should think so!" and Miss Benson began to undo the little girl's unevenly buttoned gown.

When Molly was at last made tidy, she went downstairs to the dining-room, where the family had assembled for breakfast. At her plate there were five mysterious-looking paper parcels. One was irregular in shape and had a knob on top.

"It is a doll! I know it is a doll!" she exclaimed in excitement. On the outside of the bundle was written: "For Molly, from her loving mother." She undid the string with trembling fingers. "It is a boy. I am so  glad," she said, "because I have so many daughters."

"I told mother that the girls needed a brother to keep them in order," said Turner.

The new-comer was dressed in a dark blue sailor suit, trimmed with white braid. A sailor cap of dark blue was on the top of his flaxen curls, and his blue eyes were full of beauty and intelligence.

"He is lovely," said Molly enthusiastically, "and I know he is going to be the best of all my children, except Jane. I shall call him George Washington, because he is so good."

"Boys are always good," said Turner.

The next package she opened was small and hard. On it was written: "For Molly, from her papa."

It contained a napkin-ring of plain silver with a beaded edge. On the outside was engraved, "Molly;" and inside were her initials and her papa's, and the date.

Molly could not like the napkin-ring so well as the doll, but she kissed her father and thanked him for his present.

"Twenty years from now," said Turner, "you will prefer the napkin-ring to George Washington. I can foretell that he will be a total wreck by that time in spite of his name."

The next present which Molly undid was a family of paper dolls from Flora. Ruth had painted them, but Flora had planned their clothes and named them. Molly was much pleased with these new friends. There were two more presents: one was a little paint box from Ruth; the other a Testament, bound in red morocco, from Molly's aunt Mary.

"Turner did not give me anything," the little girl thought, feeling somewhat aggrieved. At that moment she chanced to look under the table, and there she saw—oh, joyful sight!—a sled! a large sled, large enough for her and Turner and Flora all to coast on together. It was low, wide, and long, and it was painted black.

"Oh, how lovely!" said Molly. "Is that your present, Turner?"

He nodded.

"You are the nicest boy I ever saw."

"Even nicer than George Washington?"

"Even nicer."

"And handsomer, of course?"

Molly glanced from her brother's freckled face to the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired doll, and felt a little doubtful; so she said nothing, but dived under the table and dragged out her sled.

"If you will only tell me that I am handsome as well as good, I will take you and Flora coasting on Brown's hill this afternoon," said Turner.

"Truly! How perfectly splendid!" and Molly clapped her hands.

"But if you don't tell me that I am handsome, my feelings will be so deeply hurt that I shall be obliged to leave you at home," he added.

"Of course you are handsome," said Molly, "only not the same kind of handsome that George Washington is."

Molly had been too busy, so far, to give any thought to the weather, but now she ran to the window and saw a beautiful sight. The sun was just rising and sending rays of light over the trees and shrubs in the garden. When she had gone to bed the night before, there had been only commonplace snow on the ground, but it had rained all night, and the rain had frozen as it fell. Each twig was outlined in ice, and the garden looked like a fairy wood full of trees and shrubs made of glass. Even the summer-house had turned to glass in the night.

"The year has changed on its birthday," said Molly, "even if I am the same on mine."

It was so cold all day that the snow did not melt, and when Molly started with Turner and Flora, after dinner, the sun was shining so brightly that the trees and shrubs took on an added splendor, and it seemed as if they were not made of common glass, but hung with sparkling diamonds. Molly felt as if she were a young princess wandering in an enchanted wood.

"How lovely it is!" she said with a deep drawn sigh of delight.

"It's awfully slippery," said Flora.

When they reached the pasture that led to Brown's hill, Turner let down the bars and his little sisters ran through joyously.

The hill was a long one; it was quite steep in the beginning, and then sloped away more gradually until it reached the level meadow below. Here there was a little pond which was covered with ice.

Turner put Flora in front, on the big black sled, and Molly in the middle, and then he got on behind so that he could steer.

Away they went, so fast that Molly was frightened, and clung to Flora with both hands. It seemed as if they were flying down the hill, and Molly felt as if they were running a race with the wind. At last they reached the little pond and skimmed over that too, and then they began to go slower and slower until at length the sled stopped, as if it were worn out and needed rest.

"Oh, dear!" said Molly, as they began to walk up the long hill, "I wish that hills were all down without any up."

"And yet if they were all upside down you wouldn't like it," said Turner. "Get on, and I will drag you up the rest of the way."

"I wish I were only six years old," said Flora, as Molly took her place on the sled.

"You are a lazy thing," said Turner.

The next time they went down the hill Molly was less afraid, and after they had gone down three or four times she thought there was nothing in the world so delightful as coasting on a big sled with a big brother. Did birds feel so free and joyful when they spread their wings and flew away? Were fairies any happier? On the whole, she thought that she would rather take her chances as Molly Benson, for birds and fairies could not have a sled for a birthday present, or a silver napkin-ring, or a George Washington.

They coasted all the afternoon, until the sun went down, and the diamonds faded into common glass. But the world still seemed like an enchanted place to the little girl, for something of the glory of the day was in her heart.

"Mamma," she said, as her mother was putting her to bed that night, "how many more days shall I be six?"

"There are three hundred and sixty-four days left, Molly."

"Will they all be as happy as this, do you suppose, mamma?"

"Not all, darling; but there will be something beautiful in each day for my little girl if she has the eyes to see it."

"Yes, there will always be George Washington," said Molly.