Peaches took the mirror, studying the face intently.
She glanced over her shoulder so Mickey piled the
pillows higher. Then she looked at him.
Mickey scrutinized her closely.
“You’re clean kid, clean as a plate!”
he assured her. “Honest you are! You
needn’t worry about that. I’ll always
keep you washed clean. She was more particular
about that than anything else. Don’t you
fret about my having a dirty girl around! You’re
clean, all right!”
Peaches sighed as she returned the mirror. Mickey
replaced it, laid the slate and ribbons in reach,
washed the dishes, then the sheets he had removed,
and their soiled clothing. Peaches lay folding
and unfolding the ribbons; asking questions while
Mickey worked, or with the pencil tracing her best
imitations of the name on the slate. By the time
he had finished everything to be done and drawn a
chair beside the bed, to see if she had learned her
lesson for the day, it was cool evening. She knew
all the words he had given her, so he proceeded to
write them on the slate. Then told her about
the big man named Douglas Bruce and the lovely girl
named Leslie Winton, also every word he could remember
about the house she lived in; then he added:
“Lily, do you like to be surprised better or
do you like to think things over?”
“I don’t know,” said Peaches.
“Well, before long, I’ll know,”
said Mickey. “What I was thinking was this:
you are going to have something. I just wondered
whether you’d rather know it was coming, or
have me walk in with it and surprise you.”
“Mickey, you just walk in,” she decided.
“All right!” said Mickey.
“Mickey, write on the other side of my slate
what you said at the door to-night,” she coaxed.
“Get a little book an’ write ’em
all down. Mickey, I want to learn all of them,
when I c’n read. Lemme tell you. You
make all you c’n think of. Nen make more.
An’ make ’em, an’ make ’em!
An’ when you get big as you’re goin’
to be, make books of ’em, an’ be a poet-man
’stead of sellin’ papers.”
“Sure!” said Mickey. “I’d
just as lief be a poet-man as not! I’d write
a big one all about a little yellow-haired girl named
Lily Peaches, and I’d put it on the front page
of the Herald! Honest I would! I’d
like to!”
“Gee!” said Peaches. “You go
on an’ grow hel—wope! I mean
hurry! Hurry an’ grow up!”
The Song of a Bird
“Leslie,” said the voice of Mrs. James
Minturn over the telephone, “is there any particular
time of the day when that bird of yours sings better
than at another?”
“Morning, Mrs. Minturn; five, the latest.
At that time one hears the full chorus, and sees the
perfect beauty. Really, I wouldn’t ask you,
if I were not sure, positively sure, that you’d
find the trip worth while.”
“I’ll be ready in the morning, but that’s
an unearthly hour!” came the protest.
