"That is a beautiful letter," said her father; "now sign your name just here—and I will seal it up, and direct it on the outside, and send it to the post office."
So Bella made such a funny little scratch with the pen for her name, that it looked as if a fly had turned round and round, with ink on its legs, and then the letter went off on its travels.
The next day her cousin Stanny came to spend the day with Bella. Stanny was a dear little fellow, with light hair, and great blue eyes, and cheeks as fat as butter—they were so fat that the dimples had hard work to make holes in them.
Bella loved Stanny, and she ran to kiss him, and show him her new baby, and the other things; and what do you think Stanny did when he saw the baby in the bed? Why, he tilted up the bedstead, and out fell dolly flat on her nose! That was just like a boy—they will never do to be mothers, like little girls—because they play so roughly.
"Oh Stanny," cried Bella, picking up the dolly tenderly, "she's most killded."
"Why don't she cry then?" said Stanny.
"'Cause she isn't a cry baby," said Bella.
"I mean to punch her and make her cry," said Stanny.
So he doubled up his fist and gave the dolly a great punch in the stomach—but the dear little thing just stared at him without winking, and never said a word. You see the truth was that she had no crying place made inside of her, as some of the babies have—and I for one think it was quite an improvement, for who wants to hear a baby squealing like a pig—you don't, do you? you little kitten!
Bella did not like to have her baby treated in this manner—and it was very fortunate that their grandmamma came in the room just then, with two large slices of bread, with the most delightful currant jelly spread all over them, and gave one to each of the children, or perhaps Bella might have turned into a cry-baby—and that would have made you and me very sorry.