"Sister, may I read it to you just once more?" begged a coaxing voice.
"Yes, Pet, once more. That'll make five times, and they say there is luck in odd numbers," said another voice, kind and gay.
"My dear is like a dewy rose
All in the early morn;
But never on her stem there grows
A single wounding thorn.
"My dear is like a violet shy,
Who hides her in the grass,
And holds a fragrant bud on high
To bless all men who pass.
"My dear is like a merry bird,
My dear is like a rill,
Like all sweet things or seen or heard,
Only she's sweeter still.
"And while she blooms beside my door,
Or sings beneath my sky,
My heart with happiness runs o'er,
Content and glad am I.
"So, sweetheart, read me as I run,
Smile on this simple rhyme,
And choose me out to be your one
And only Valentine."
"Isn't it lovely?" said Pet, her blue eyes dancing as she looked up.
"Yes, it's very nice," replied sister.
"I wish everybody in the world had such a nice valentine," went on Pet. "How pleased they'd be! Do you suppose anybody has sent Lotty one? Only that about the bird wouldn't be true, because Lotty's so sick, you know, and always stays in bed."
"But Lotty sings," said sister. "She's always singing and cheerful, so she's like a bird in that."
"Birdies with broken wings
Hide from each other;
But babies in trouble
Can run home to mother,"
hummed Pet, who knew the "St. Nicholas" jingles by heart. "But poor Lotty hasn't any mamma to run to," she added softly.