“Why, mamma, about my cousin Bell’s birthday; do you know what day it is?” “No, I don’t remember.” “Dear mother! don’t you remember it’s the 22nd of December; and her birthday is the day after to-morrow? Don’t you recollect now? But you never remember about birthdays, mamma. That was just what I was thinking of, that you never remember my sister Laura’s birthday, or—or—or _mine_, mamma.” “What do you mean my dear? I remember your birthday perfectly well.” “Indeed! but you never _keep_ it, though.” “What do you mean by keeping your birthday?” “Oh, mamma, you know very well—as Bell’s birthday is kept. In the first place, there is a great dinner.” “And can Bell eat more upon her birthday than upon any other day?” “No; nor I should not mind about the dinner, except the mince-pies. But Bell has a great many nice things—I don’t mean nice eatable things, but nice new playthings, given to her always on her birthday; and everybody drinks her health, and she’s so happy.” “But stay, Rosamond, how you jumble things together! Is it everybody’s drinking her health that makes her so happy? or the new playthings, or the nice mince pies? I can easily believe that she is happy whilst she is eating a mince pie, or whilst she is playing; but how does everybody’s drinking her health at dinner make her happy?” Rosamond paused, and then said she did not know. “But,” added she, “the _nice new_ playthings, mother!” [Picture: The Birthday Present] “But why the nice new playthings? Do you like them only because they are _new_?” “Not _only_—_I_ do not like playthings _only_ because they are new; but Bell _does_, I believe—for that puts me in mind—Do you know, mother, she had a great drawer full of _old_ playthings that she never used, and she said that they were good for nothing, because they were _old_; but I thought many of them were good for a great deal more than the new ones. Now you shall be judge, mamma; I’ll tell you all that was in the drawer.” “Nay, Rosamond, thank you, not just now; I have not time to listen to you.” “Well then, mamma, the day after to-morrow I can show you the drawer. I want you to judge very much, because I am sure I was in the right. And, mother,” added Rosamond, stopping her as she was going out of the room, “will you—not now, but when you’ve time—will you tell me why you never keep my birthday—why you never make any difference between that day and any other day?” “And will you, Rosamond—not now, but when you have time to think about it—tell me why I should make any difference between your birthday and any other day?”