"Papa always does something very specially nice for me," Dimple had just
announced, "and I always have a lovely birthday-cake with icing and
candles. Mamma makes it herself, because I always think it tastes better
when she does. And she lets me choose what we are to have for dinner.
You tell what you like best, Florence, and we'll have that."
"I like fried chicken better than anything, except, of course, ice cream
and cake."
"So do I. I'm so glad you like what I do, and I'm very glad my birthday
is in June, for it is such a rosy month, and we can have strawberries
with the ice cream. There are so many good things to eat in June;
strawberries, and peas, and asparagus and--oh, I don't know what all."
This conversation took place before breakfast, and Dimple was sitting on
the floor hugging her knees, and looking as contented as it was possible
to be.
They were still talking on the important subject when they entered the
dining-room.
"What's all this about birthdays?" asked Mr. Dallas, looking up from his
morning paper.
"Why, papa, don't you know my birthday will be next week?" returned
Dimple, as she went up to give him his morning kiss. "Aren't you glad?"
she added.
"Is it an occasion for great joyfulness? I'm not so sure of that. Don't
you know it makes mamma feel very serious to have a daughter eight--or
is it nine--years old? And as for myself, I begin to feel the grey hairs
popping out all over my head at the very thought of it.
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