"I don't want any chair, nor anything else with wooden legs."
"What kind of legs, then?"
"Bone ones."
"Why! why! I don't know any bone-legged things."
"Bones with hair on them."
"Oh, you want a Teddybear—you, and coming eight! Well! Well! But Teddybears have wire legs, I think, instead of bone."
The set look settled once more on his little, square face and the talk ceased. But the fight was on. Day after day, week after week, he had me guessing—through all the living quadrupeds—through all the fossil forms—through many that the Lord did not make, but might have made, had Adam only known enough Greek and Latin to give them names. Gently, persistently, he kept me guessing as the far-off day drew near, though long since my only question had been—What breed? August came finally, and a few days before the 24th we started by automobile for New Jersey.
We were speeding along the road for Princeton when all four boys leaned forward from the back seat, and Babe, close in my ear, said:—
"Shall I have any birthday down here, Father?"
"Certainly."