There were fair dolls, dark dolls, white dolls, black dolls, big dolls—some even were life-size—fat dolls, thin dolls, little dolls, tiny dolls; there were jointed dolls, who opened and shut their eyes; there were dolls who could talk, and dolls who kept silent. I believe myself that Bertha loved the silent ones best; they could not answer back, you see.
Uncle Jean, the brother of Bertha's father, had made a point of giving Bertha her first toy. He brought her, one fine morning, a lovely white poodle, which had pink silk ribbons on it and little tinkly bells. There was a spring inside, and when Bertha pressed this gently with her fingers, the dog barked. It was altogether so well made that you would have thought it was alive.
When he gave it to her, before the whole family, Uncle Jean made her the following speech:
"My dear niece, I give you this dog rather than a doll, because the dog is the friend of man, but a doll—" here he mumbled into his big moustache a lot of long words which got so mixed up with the barking of the dog that nobody could catch them. Perhaps it was just as well.
Uncle Jean was always saying funny clever things to make people laugh but really he was very wise and thoughtful. Everybody liked him and he was invited places all the time.
So Bertha's first plaything was this dog, who was then and there given the name of "Clown." Why they hit upon this name I really cannot say.
After the dog there came, one by one, all the dolls I just told you about, but Bertha loved Clown best. You see, he was the only dog she had, but there were many dolls to share her love.
