Part 22 (1/2)

”I guess, maybe, perhaps that's the postman--though I didn't hear his whistle,” said Jimmieboy, rus.h.i.+ng to the head of the stairs and listening intently, but no one went to the door and Jimmieboy became so impatient that he fairly tumbled down the stairs to open it himself.

”Howdy do,” he said, as he opened the door, and then he stopped short in amazement. There was no one there and yet his salutation was returned.

”Howdy do!” something said. ”I'm glad you came to the door, because I mightn't have got in if the maid had opened it. People who don't understand queer things don't understand me, and I rather think if the girl had opened that door and had been spoken to by something she couldn't see she'd have started to run and hide, shrieking Lawk, meanwhile.”

”I've half a mind to shriek Lawk, myself,” said Jimmieboy, a little fearfully, for he wasn't quite easy about this invisible something he was talking to. ”Who are you, anyhow?”

”I'm not a who, I'm a what,” said the queer thing. ”I'm not a person, I'm a thing--just a plain, homely, queer thing. I couldn't hurt a fly, so there's no reason why you should cry Lawk.”

”Well, what kind of a queer thing are you?” asked Jimmieboy. ”Are you the kind of a queer thing I can invite into the house or would it be better for me to shut the door and make you stay outside.”

”I don't like to say,” said the queer thing, with a pathetic little sigh. ”I think I'm very nice and that anybody ought to be glad to have me in the house, but that's only my opinion of myself. Somebody else might think differently. In fact somebody else has thought differently.

You know rhinoceroses and crocodiles think themselves very handsome, and that's why they sit and gaze at themselves in the water all the time.

Everybody else though knows that they are very ugly. Now that's the way with me. As I have said, I'm sure in my own mind that I am perfectly splendid, and yet your Uncle Periwinkle, who thought of me, wouldn't write me and send me to you.”

”You must be very wise if you know what you mean,” said Jimmieboy. ”I don't.”

”Oh, no--I'm not so wise--I'm only splendid, that's all,” said the other. ”You see I'm a valentine, only I never was made. I was only thought of. Your Uncle Periwinkle thought of me and was going to send me to you and then he changed his mind and thought you'd rather have a box of candy; so he didn't write me and sent you a box of chocolate creams instead. The postman's got 'em and if he doesn't find out what they are and eat 'm all up you'll receive them this afternoon. Won't you let me come in and tell you about myself and see if you don't like me? I want to be liked--oh ever so much, and I was awfully disappointed when your uncle decided not to send me. I cried for eight minutes and then resolved to come here myself and see if after all he wasn't wrong. Let me come in and if you don't like me I'll go right out again and never come back.”

”I like you already, without knowing what kind of a valentime you are,”

said Jimmieboy, kindly. ”Of course you can come in, and you can stay as long as you want to. I don't believe you'll be in anybody's way.”

”Thank you very much,” said the valentine, gratefully, as it moved into the house, and, to judge from where its voice next came, settled down on the big sofa cus.h.i.+on. ”I hoped you'd say that.”

”What kind of a valentime are you?” asked Jimmieboy in a moment. ”Are you a funny one or a solemn one, with paper frills all over it in a box and a little cupid peeping out from behind a tree?”

”I am almost afraid to tell you,” said the valentine, timidly. ”I am so afraid you won't like me.”

”Oh, yes I will,” said Jimmieboy, hastily. ”I like all kinds of valentimes.”

”Well, that's a relief,” said the other. ”I'm comic.”

”Hooray!” cried Jimmieboy, ”I just love comic valentimes with red and blue pictures in 'em and funny verses.”

”Do you really?” returned the valentine, cheerfully. ”Then I can say hooray, too, because that's what I was to be. I was to be a picture of a boy with red trousers on, sitting crosswise on a great yellow broomstick, galloping through a blue sky, toward a pink moon. How do you like that?”

”It _is_ splendid, just as you said,” returned Jimmieboy, with a broad smile. ”Those are my favorite colors.”

”You like those colors better than you do chocolate cream color?” asked the valentine.

”Oh, my yes,” said Jimmieboy. ”Probably you wouldn't be so good to eat as a chocolate cream, but for a valentime, you're much better. I don't want to eat valentimes, I want to keep 'em.”

”You don't know how glad you make me,” said the pathetic little valentine, its voice trembling with happiness. ”Now, if you like my verses as well as you do my picture, I will be perfectly content.”

”I guess I'll like 'em,” said Jimmieboy. ”Can you recite yourself to me?”

”I'm not written--didn't I tell you?” returned the valentine. ”That's the good part of it. I can tell you what I might have been and you can take your choice.”

”That's good,” said Jimmieboy. ”Then I'm sure to be satisfied.”