Dear Dolly: Use a handkerchief
Whenever you’re inclined to sniff.
But with this band of blue I think
They don’t need polka-dots of ink.
It was a constant wonder to the household what Dorothea did with her handkerchiefs when she was at school. In vain she protested that she didn’t wipe her pen on them, and she didn’t use them as blotters or to wash out her ink-well; but, nevertheless, black stains almost always appeared upon them, and Florence insisted that the family had to buy an extra pint of milk a day to take out all these ink-stains. Cousin Edith was too frequent a visitor not to know all the family plans and jokes, and Dolly, as she laughed and shook out one of the blue-bordered squares, resolved that “polka-dots” should be conspicuous by their absence, for Edith would be sure to know.
She entered the breakfast room just as the family were sitting down to the table.
“Behold the effects of my generosity and fore-thought!” exclaimed Jim waving his hand toward her. “Our Youngest is in time for breakfast!”
“Many happy returns of the day, small sister,” said Anita, just as if it was her birthday, kissing her good morning and slipping a little hard package into her hand. “Bob sends you this with his love.”
“I don’t mind returns of the day when it’s like this,” said Dorothea, opening the package and at the same time spying a couple of tissue-paper parcels lying beside her plate. Inside was a small chamois-skin case out of which slid a little pearl-handled penknife. The accompanying card bore the name of her future brother-in-law, and also these words:
I hesitate to offer you
This knife, for I shall be
Afraid that if you cut yourself
You straightway will cut me.
“How long did it take Bob to execute that masterpiece?” inquired Jim as Dorothea read it aloud.
“You’re jealous,” she said. “Yours wasn’t half so lovely as Cousin Edith’s and Bob’s. It wasn’t poetry at all.”
“I left all the eloquence to my gift itself,” answered Jim, helping himself to an orange.