“It was originally,” the Plausible Donkey said plausibly. “My ancestor was named after the song because his brays were bonnie.”
“Oh,” said Alice, politely; but the wooden man snickered and spoiled it all.
“You’re making fun of me,” she cried, with tears in her voice, “and I don’t want to hear you sing now.”
She hurried away, leaving the wooden man to apologize as best he could for Alice’s impoliteness. He was puffing mightily when he overtook her.
“I think we’ve had enough of animals,” he said between gasps. “Let’s go over and see the books.” It was evident, even to Alice, that he was getting tired of his charge.
They were in the book department before they knew it—before Alice knew it, at any rate. All around them were books—heaps and heaps of them—on tables and shelves, and piled on long counters, and hung up in booths; and in the very center of the immense room, whose horizon could not be seen for the stacks of books, was a great American Eagle, made entirely of books, the work of the chief window-dresser, who was a very literary man.
“Have you ‘The Young Visiters’?” asked Alice.
“Young visitors!” echoed the wooden man. “Santa Claus has dozens of them—hundreds—every day. Thousands, I guess!”
“Silly! It’s a book,” said Alice. “It was written by a friend of mine, Daisy Ashford, when she was only nine years old.”
The wooden man looked very suspiciously at his charge.