Bayard (to himself). I oughtn't to be glad; but I am—I am! She's safe, and—and she'll come back to me after this! (To the Bicycle.) Wasn't she sorry for you?
The Bicycle. Not she! These women have no feeling in them. Why, what do you suppose she said when they told me it would take weeks to tinker me up?
Bayard (to himself—with joy). I think I can guess! (To the Bicycle.) What did she say?
The Bicycle (rattling with indignation). Why, all she said was: "How tiresome! I wonder if I can hire a decent bike here without having to send to town for one." There's gratitude for you! But you can't enter into my feelings about it.
Bayard. Pardon me—I fancy I can. And, after all, your day will come, when the Vet has set you up again. Mine's over for ever. (To himself.) Oh, why, why wasn't I born a bicycle!
A DOLL'S DIARY.
January 1.—Just had a brilliant idea—quite original. I don't believe even any human person ever thought of such a thing, but then,—besides being extremely beautiful and expensive, with refined wax features and golden hair—I am a very clever doll indeed. Frivolous, no doubt; heartless, so they tell me—but the very reverse of a fool. I flatter myself that if anybody understands the nature of toys, especially male toys—but I am forgetting my idea—which is this. I am going this year to write down—the little girl I belong to has no idea I can write, but I can—and better than she does, too!—to write down every event of importance that happens, with the dates. There! I fancy that is original enough. It will be a valuable dollian document when it is done, and most interesting to look back upon. Now I must wait for something to happen.