CHAPTER VII.
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.
But I must tell you what happened to poor Toady one day, and see if you wonder that Violet felt badly.
She was sitting on the doorstep sewing, with kitty in her lap, sound asleep, and the three toads watching her from the walk—as happy a little girl as ever breathed.
It was her birthday; and when she awoke that morning, the first thing her eyes rested upon was the largest bunch of sweet violets she had ever seen in her life. They were set in a beautiful white cup, with VIOLET printed in gold letters on the front.
She hardly stopped to look twice at them, but, in her nightgown, ran to the door to find and thank her good, kind parents. They were not in the field or the garden; and then Violet remembered that this was market day, and they must have gone to the town, and might not be home again until afternoon.
It was an hour before Violet could dress herself. She looked at and smelt of the flowers a hundred times—set them in every corner and on every ledge to see where they would look prettiest—talked to them, and danced around them, and even pinched her finger to see if she could be awake.
All these beautiful, fragrant blossoms her own for a whole day—for a week—as long as they did not fade!
Then she went to the brook for water, and setting her basin on the bank, knelt down among the dewy flowers to wash her face and smooth her long, soft, golden hair, and as she went home, sang her morning hymn; for Violet knew that every morning the birds poured forth their songs, and the flowers their odors, and the brook its vapor wreaths, in gratitude to Heaven; and she had no idea of being the only ungrateful thing on earth.