Part 13 (1/2)

What good would forty heads do her? I tell you my dolly is dead!

And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant new Spring hat!

And I took a sweet ribbon of her's last night to tie on that horrid cat!

When my mamma gave me that ribbon--I was playing out in the yard-- She said to me most expressly, ”Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde.”

And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me do it; But I said to myself, ”Oh, never mind, I don't believe she knew it!”

But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe I do, That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.

Oh, my baby! my little baby! I wish my head had been hit!

For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.

But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course; We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse; And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her in this, you see-- This dear little box--and we'll bury her there out under the maple tree.

And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird; And he'll put what I tell him on it--yes, every single word!

I shall say, ”Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead; She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head.”

AT THE STAMP WINDOW.

Just before twelve o'clock yesterday fore-noon there were thirteen men and one woman at the stamp window of the post-office. Most of the men had letters to post for the out-going trains. The woman had something tied up in a blue match-box. She got there first, and she held the position with her head in the window and both elbows on the shelf.

”Is there such a place in this country as Cleveland?” she began.

”Oh, yes.”

”Do you send mail there?”

”Yes.”

”Well, a woman living next door asked me to mail this box for her. I guess it's directed all right. She said it ought to go for a cent.”

”Takes two cents,” said the clerk, after weighing it. ”If there is writing inside it will be twelve cents.”

”Mercy on me, but how you do charge!”

Here the thirteen men began to push up and hustle around and talk about one old match-box delaying two dozen business letters, but the woman had lots of time.

”Then it will be two cents, eh?”

”If there is no writing inside.”

”Well, there may be. I know she is a great hand to write. She's sending some flower seeds to her sister, and I presume she has told her how to plant 'm.”