O mercy! It seemed as if the sun, which went to bed three hours ago, had got up again, and was pouring over April’s lap on to the kitchen floor. For there lay a great heap of dandelions, golden and splendid, which perked up their heads, and laughed and winked on all around. The whole room seemed to brighten from their glorious color. And, what was funny, these dandelions had voices, as it seemed; for out of the middle of the heap came queer sounds of peeping and chirping, which the children could not at all understand.
April laughed. She parted the flowers, and there were two little new-born chicks, as yellow as the yolk of an egg. They were soft and downy; and their cunning black eyes and little beaks gave them a knowing look, which was astonishing, when you recollected how short a time they had been in the world. “Cheep! cheep!” they cried, and one ran directly into Thekla’s outstretched hands. The warm fingers felt to it like a nest; and the little creature cuddled down contentedly, with a soft note which expressed comfort. The other, April handed to Max.
“They are for you,” she said. “If you like them and take care of them, you may have a whole poultry-yard some day. My broods are not always lucky; but these will be.”
“Like them,” indeed! You should have seen the happy fuss which went on over the new pets. Max ran for a basket; Thekla brought flannel to line it, and meal and water; and the chicks were kissed, fed, and tucked away as if they had been babies. By and by they fell fast asleep under their warm coverlet; and then the children went back to the fire, and, while Max made ringlets of the dandelion-stalks and stuck them in Thekla’s hair, April began:—
“My story isn’t much,” she said. “I’ve told so many in the course of my life that I’m quite exhausted, for I make it a rule never to tell the same twice. Some are so sad that it makes me cry merely to think of them,”—and as she said this April’s tears suddenly rained down her face,—“and others so jolly that I should split my sides if I tried.” Here April giggled like a school-girl, and her eyes seemed to send out rays of sun which danced on the wet tear-stains. “So it must always be new,” she went on; “and, ever since I saw you, I’ve been trying to decide what it should be. There was a delightful one about ducklings which I thought of,—but no!” and she solemnly shook her head.
“Oh, why not? Do, pray do!” cried Max.
“Couldn’t,” said April. “That story—the first half of it at least—I told to a little girl in England last year. I didn’t finish because something came along and set me crying, but half is just as bad as the whole. I couldn’t tell that again. Don’t look so disappointed, though! I’ve got one for you; and, though it isn’t one of my best, I dare say you’ll like it well enough. It’s about a doll.”
“A doll! Pshaw!” said Max, impolitely.
“Why, what a rude boy you are!” cried April, beginning to sob. “I declare, I ne—never was t—treated so before.”
“Max!” exclaimed Thekla, “how could you? You’ve hurt her feelings. Don’t cry any more, dear,” she went on,—for somehow Thekla felt older and bigger than this fascinating little maiden who laughed and cried by turns,—“he didn’t mean to. He is a real kind boy, only sometimes he speaks before he thinks. And I like dolls—oh, so much!”