"Well, to be sure," said Jane, "you're very little, and ain't 'round much, but I should have thought you'd have heard somebody say something about valentines before this; but you ain't much for listening and asking, I know."
"No," echoed Polly; "but I'm listening now."
Jane laughed. "Yes, I see you are. Well, a valentine is just a piece of poetry, with a picture to it, that anybody sends to a person on Valentine's Day."
"What's Valentine's Day?"
"Why, it's the day you send valentines, to be sure,—the 14th of February."
"Is it like Christmas? Was Valentine very good, and is it his birthday as Christmas is Christ's birthday?"
"Mercy, no! What queer things you do ask when you get going, Polly! Valentine's Day is just Valentine's Day, when folks send these poetry and picture things for fun, and don't sign their own names, only 'Your Valentine,' and that means somebody who has chosen—chosen to be your—well, your beau, maybe."
"What's a beau?" asked innocent Polly.
"Polly, you don't know anything!" cried Jane, in an exasperated tone. "A beau is—is somebody who likes you better 'n anybody else."
"Oh, I wish I had one!"