How It Happened

's-length, turning it now in one direction, now in an

ever since you were sent

feet, and nodded at it with firmness and decision. "It's going to be my Christmas present to myself-ge

rayness, with its yellow bird and broken buckle of tarnished steel, was sent in the air, and as it landed across the room the child laughed gaily, ran toward it, and with the tip of her toes tossed it here and there. Sending it now up to the ceiling, now toward the mantel, now kicking it over the table, and now to th

nd hideous, and nobody but a person like her would ever have bought it. I never thoug

missioners seem to think because you're poor everything God put in other people's hearts and minds and bodies and souls He left out of you. Of course, if you haven't a hat you ought to be thankful for any kind." The words came soberly, and the tin

buttons in the broken basket, she walked slowly over to the tiny mirror hung above a ch

th, and counting every stick of wood before you use it. And you get furious at times because your father is blind and people have forgotten about his beautiful music, and you want chicken and cake when you haven't even enough bacon and bread. You're a sinner,

d eager for all that is lovely in life, dimmed with hot tears, and with a half-sob she turn

m know! I wasn't born good, and I hate bad smells, and dirty things, and ugly clothes, and not enough to eat,

g broke the stillness of the room, notwithstanding the knuckles of two little red hands which were presse

ometimes, like before Christmas when you're crazy to do a lot of things you can't do-and some people make you so mad! If I'd been born different and not minding ugly things and loving pretty ones, I wouldn't have hated th

en over her face. "I must be getting sorry for myself. If I am I ought to be spanked. I can

own a once beribboned but now faded and worn tambourine. "You'd rather cry," she s

n beauty. Around the room, one arm akimbo, one hand now in the air, now touching with the tambourine the hard, bare floor, now tossing back the loose curls, now waving gaily overhead, faster and faster she

Miss Frances before I go for Father? I must see her. Must! Those Beckwith babies have got the croup, and I want to ask her if she thinks it's awful piggy in me to put all my money, or 'most all, in Father's prese

half past five I can see the people get out of their automobiles and sail in. I wish I could sail somewhere. If I could see some grandness once and get the smell of cabbage and onions out of my nose, which I never will as lo

istful, then she dropped on her knees by the couch and buried her face in her ar

y, or things like that, but something thrilly and exciting and romantic, if You can manage it. Every day is just the same sort of sameness, and I get so mad-tired of cooking and cleaning and mending, before school and after school and nights, that if something don't happen soon I'm afraid Father will find out what a pretending person I am, and he mustn't find. It's been much better since I knew Miss Frances. I'm awful much obliged to You for letting me know her

de, "and, straw or no straw, it feels better than that Coachman Cattie, which is gone for evermore. Some day I hope I can burn you up, too"-she nodded to the coat into which she was struggling-"but I can't