February was birthday month in the Morton family. Jane’s came first on the thirteenth, Ernest’s on the twenty-second, and Mrs. Morton came near having a birthday only once in four years, for hers was on the twenty-eighth.
“My, I’d hate to be born on the thirteenth. Cousin May says thirteen is awfully unlucky,” said Katy impressively, when Chicken Little told her the fateful date.
“Yes, but you see I was born on Sunday, too, and Sunday’s the very luckiest day there is to be born on.”
“Yes, Jane, ‘Blithe and bonny and good and gay, is the child who is born on the Sabbath day,’” chanted Marian, who was sitting by the window sewing. “You have something to live up to, little sister, if you are all that.”
“I’m glad my birthday isn’t coming on Sunday this year,” said Jane thoughtfully. “It did one year and I couldn’t have a party or nothing. I do think Sunday is the inconvenientest day—I wish God hadn’t ever thought to make it!”
“But we need one day of rest,” said Marian, struggling with a laugh.
“Ye—es, but I think we get enough rest sleeping nights; I think Sundays are awful tiring,—you have to work so hard remembering what you can’t do.”
“I like Sundays,” said Gertie, “’cause Father’s home and he reads to us Sunday afternoons.”
“Father takes a nap, you can hear him all over the house—and Mother tells us to be quiet so we won’t wake him. ’Sides your mother lets you do more things.”
“I guess your folks are religiouser than ours,” said Katy complacently.