“We will now have the pleasure of listening to this spicy creature. She surely has a fine story to tell.”
Miss Clove had been slyly studying the dictionary, and longed to impress the audience with the wonderful story of her life. She smoothed her crimson sash, perked the butterfly bow on her hair till it seemed almost ready to fly away, and with cheeks as red as her ribbons began timidly.
“Ladies and Gentlemen: I am an undeveloped bud—”
“Ha! Ha!” cried one, who looked much like a vinegar cruet. “That is a joke!”
“Why?” demanded the Stick Doll.
“She said undeveloped.”
“So she did, what of it? You may tell us what the word means.”
The sour-looking one, much confused, stalked away as he murmured under his breath,
“We aren’t to learn anything here, I thought.”