"Do you ever have any ice to skate on, here?" asked Bertha.
"Not in the part of Texas I've ever been in," he sighed.
Mrs. Jones was ruefully smoothing the one-armed doll's flimsy dress.
"I—I told them there were no little girls in the family," she said, her worried eyes seeking her husband's face. "It—it's all right, of course; only—only these dolls did take space."
Some magazines came next, and a few old books, upon which the boys fell greedily—though the books they soon threw to one side as if they were of little interest.
Undergarments appeared then, plainly much worn and patched. To Genevieve they looked quite impossible. She almost cried when she saw how eagerly Mrs. Jones gathered the motley pile into her arms and began to sort them out with little exclamations of satisfaction.
Next in the barrel were found an ink-stained apron, a bath-robe, nearly new—which plainly owed its presence to its hideous colors—two or three tin dishes (not new), a harmonica, a box containing a straw hat trimmed with drooping blue bows, several fans, a box of dominoes, a pocket-knife with a broken blade, several pairs of new hose, marked plainly "seconds," some sheets and pillow-cases (half-worn, but hailed with joy by Mrs. Jones), a kimono, an assortment of men's half-worn shoes—pounced upon at once by Paul and his father, and not abandoned until it was found that only two were mates, and only one of these good for much wear.
It was at this point that there came a muffled shout from Ned, whose head was far down in the barrel.
"Here's a package—a big one—and it's marked 'dress for Mrs. Jones.' Mother, you did get it, after all!" he cried, tumbling the package into his mother's lap.
Tremblingly half a dozen pairs of hands attempted to untie the strings and to unwrap the coverings; then, across Mrs. Jones's lap there lay a tawdry dress of pale-blue silk, spotted and soiled. Pinned to it was a note in a scrawling feminine hand: "This will wash and make over nicely, I think, if you can't wear it just as it is."