The Child
T
This, little Dear-My-Love, is the story of a Child whom I am sure you would have loved. For people did love her very much, she was so quaint and dear.
She was a remarkably bright Child and the beauty of her being bright was that she did not know it. She did bright things and said bright things and it never entered her mind to marvel at her own cleverness. However, I doubt if she would have thought of what I am going to tell you, had it not been for the Storyist.
It was somewhat absurd, the whole thing; yet it was an experience one would not soon forget.
It began, little Dear-My-Love, on a certain morning when the Child stood looking out of the window of her own pretty room. She was watching two little birds which sat huddled close together on the branch of a big fir tree; but she really wasn’t thinking about the birds. She had heard Lady-Mother say at breakfast that it lacked but two weeks of Christmas, and she had not yet selected her Gift for Lady-Mother. She was so extremely particular about what it should be that it was difficult to decide upon anything.
Presently the Child had an idea; and the more she thought of it, the more splendid it seemed as a surprise for Lady-Mother. You see, little Dear-My-Love, she wasn’t old enough to be very wise and so sometimes she did rather queer things.
A few moments later she knocked at the door of the Storyist.
She found her writing, as usual, but the Storyist was patient about interruptions and this time she set the Child lovingly upon her knee and asked what she could do for her.
“I’d like some story-paper,” said the Child.
“You may have all you wish,” proffered the Storyist, handing her a pad of scratch-paper.
The Child fingered it critically. “Will it do?” she asked.
The Storyist smiled. “I think it will—for you,” she said.
“But you see I want it very nice,” explained the Child, “because it’s for a Christmas story I’m going to write. That is, the story isn’taboutChristmas, but it’s for a Christmas present.”
The Storyist appeared interested. “So?” she said. “Who is it for? But I think I can guess,” she added quickly.
“Well, if you know please don’t tell,” cautioned the Child. Then she asked, “May I see what you’re writing?”
“Certainly,” assented the Storyist, and showed her a typewritten sheet.
The Child read:
“‘Her voice was that smooth and slippery-like that you found yourself swallowing what she said without realizing till afterward that the words stuck in your throat.’”
She read it a second time, but was sure she didn’t quite understand.
“Is it hard?” she inquired.
The Storyist looked thoughtful. “Not very,” she replied. “You just have to know what you want to say and then say it the best you can.”
It sounded reasonable and the Child grew encouraged.
“She’d be surprised to see it in a paper, wouldn’t she?” she laughed.
The Storyist agreed that she would.
When she went out she held tightly several sheets of typewriter paper and a newly-sharpened soft pencil. She was eager to begin. She set herself down at the tiny desk Lady-Mother had given her and everything was still for a long time.
Of course she was very little to think of trying to write a story, but O, little Dear-My-Love, she knew perfectly welljustwhat she wanted to say!
And so she worked very hard indeed and wrote as fast as she could make her letters.