"Whose birthday is this, anyhow?" laughed Marjorie, as she carefully unrolled the tissue-paper packing from a fine microscope. Uncle Steve had sent it, and it was both valuable and practical, and a thing the children had long wished for.
"Well, you'll let a fellow take a peep once in a while, won't you?"
"Yes, if you'll be goody-boy," said Midget, patronizingly.
Grandma Sherwood's gift was a cover for a sofa-pillow, of rich Oriental fabric, embroidered in gold thread.
"Just the thing for my couch, at home," said Midget, greatly pleased.
"Just the thing to pitch at you, after it gets stuffed," commented King. "Go on, Mops, open the big one."
The big one proved to be a case, from Mother and Father, containing a complete set of brushes and toilet articles for Marjorie's dressing-table. They were plain shapes, of ivory, with her monogram on each in dark blue.
"Gorgeous!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just what I longed for,—and so much nicer than silver, 'cause that has to be cleaned every minute. Oh, Mothery, they are lovely, and Fathery, too. Consider yourselves kissed thirteen hundred times! Oh, what's this?"
"That's my present," said King. "Open it carefully, Mops."
She did so, and revealed a pincushion, but a pincushion so befrilled and belaced and beflowered one could scarce tell what it was.