"Yes," said his mother. "You can have it. I don't think any one else wants it."
So the proof became Jimmieboy's property, and he put it away in his collection of treasures, which already contained many valuable things, such as the whistle of a rubber ball, a piece of elastic, and a worn-out tennis racket. These treasures the boy used to have out two or three times a day, and the last time he had them out something queer happened. The blurred little figure in the picture spoke to him and told him something he didn't forget in a hurry.
"You think I'm a funny-looking thing don't you?" said the blurred picture of himself.
"Yes, I do," said Jimmieboy, "that's why I laugh at you whenever I see you."
"Well, I laugh when I see you, too," retorted the picture. "You are just as funny to look at sometimes as I am."
"I'm not either," said Jimmieboy. "I don't look like a cloud or a pin-wheel, and you do."
"I'm a picture of you, just the same," returned the proof, "and if you had stood still when the man was taking you, I'd have been all right. It's awful mean the way little boys have of not standing still when they are having their pictures taken, and then laughing at the thing they're responsible for afterward."
"I didn't mean to be mean," said Jimmieboy.
"Perhaps not," retorted the picture, "but if it hadn't been for you I'd have been a lovely picture, and your mamma would have had a nice little silver frame put around me, and maybe I'd have been standing on your papa's desk with the inkstand and the mucilage instead of having to live all my life with a broken whistle and a tennis bat that nobody but you has any use for."
Here the picture sighed, and Jimmieboy felt very sorry for it.