“Ah, if I could only see my own face,” murmured Aurora.
“If you only could!” said Jack.
“Why don’t you look in a mirror?” asked the Candy Kid.
“Mirror—what is that?” inquired Aurora. “I never heard of such a thing. What is a mirror?”
“A mirror,” said the Candy Kid, “is a device that always attracts the attention of the ladies. You can see your face in it.”
“If I had one could I see my face?” asked Aurora eagerly. “You could,” answered the Candy Kid.
“I want a mirror!” shouted Aurora. “I want a mirror. If I don’t get a mirror, I’ll turn on the red light and I’ll never turn it off. I’ll chop off everybody’s head if I don’t get a mirror.”
The Candy Kid leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Santa Claus always carries one in his coat pocket so he can see to rub the smut off his face when he climbs out of the chimneys.”
Aurora dashed over to Santa Claus.
“Aren’t you ashamed,” she shouted. “Here I’ve been asking for a mirror and you wouldn’t lend me yours. I’ve a notion to—there, never mind—let me have it. You don’t need to see your face, you know, for you’re ugly and old, while I—” and she snatched the mirror from him. “Now everybody stand back, please,” she gurgled, “and give me room. I’m going to see my face for the first time.”