“Well,” said the Small Girl’s mother, “we could put him on the clock, and under a chair, and cut his tail off with a carving knife, and at the very last we could eat him up like a crow.”
The Small Girl shivered deliciously. “And he wouldn’t be a real mouse?”
“No, just a chocolate one, with cream inside.”
“Do you think I’ll get one for Christmas?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Would he be nicer than a doll?”
The Small Girl’s mother hesitated, then told the truth. “My darling—Mother saved up the money for a doll, but the Next-Door-Neighbor wants the rent.”
“Hasn’t Daddy any more money?”
“Poor Daddy has been sick so long.”
“But he’s well now.”