“TO-MORROW is my birthday!” said Robby to Bobby.
“What is your birfday?” said Bobby to Robby.
“Why, to-morrow, Silly!” said Robby.
Now Robby was nearly six years old, and a person of great importance.
“I don’t mean _that_!” said little Bobby, who was not yet four. “I
mean, what is our birfday? Is it good to eat?”
“Why! why-ee! Bobby Bell! Don’t you have birthdays?” cried Robby,
opening his eyes.
“No!” said Bobby, opening his mouth. “I neber saw one.”
“You don’t _see_ them!” said Robby, in a patronizing tone, “you _have_
them! It is the day you were born, and you have a party and presents,
and a birthday cake with frosting, and your name on it in pink letters,
and candy and oranges, and a gold dollar with Grandmamma’s love to her
dear little boy. Do you _really mean_ that you never had one, Bobby
Bell?”
Little Bobby looked very grave. “Perhaps I wasn’t born!” he said. “I’s
going to ask Mamma.” So he trotted in to his mother.
“Mamma,” he said, “was I born?”
Mamma looked at him a moment in mute surprise. “Were you born, dear?”
she repeated. “Yes, certainly you were born. Why do you ask me that,
little boy?”
Bobby’s lip began to quiver, and his blue eyes filled with tears. “Den
why,—why don’t I have birfdays?” he asked.
Mamma looked very sorry. “Dear! dear!” she said. “Now who has been
telling my leap year boy about birthdays? Come and sit in Mamma’s lap
and tell me all about it, and then I will tell _you_ all about it.”
So Bobby climbed up into Mamma’s lap and hid his face in her dress,
and sobbed out his little story about frosted cake and pink letters,
and gold dollars with Grandmamma’s love to her dear little boy. “And I
neber—I neber had _any_!” he said, piteously.
Then Mamma told Bobby a funny little story. It was about the years, and
it told how they came along, one after another, and how each year had
just the same number of days in it.
“Three—hundred—and sixty-five!
So many days I’ve been alive.
Storm and shine, and sorrow and cheer,
Really, there never _was_ such a year!”
That is what each one says before it puts on its nightcap and goes to
sleep.
But every _fourth_ year there comes one who is bigger than the rest. He
has one day more, and he is very proud of it, and holds his head very
high, and says,—
“Three—hundred—and sixty-_six_!
One _more day_ for frolicsome tricks.
One day more for work and for play.
Look at me! look at me! _One_ MORE DAY!!!”
“And so four years ago,” said Mamma, “there came one of these extra
days, and it was the very best day that any year ever brought, for on
that day my Bobby was born! Think of that!”
Bobby laughed and clapped his little fat hands.
“And so,” continued Mamma, “of course my Bobby couldn’t have another
birthday till another long year came round, with another extra day. And
now,—whisper, Bobby! now the long year _has_ come, and next Friday is
your birthday, dear, and you are going to have—oh! but I mustn’t tell!”
Mamma laughed and shook her head, and didn’t tell any more, but her
eyes told a great deal; and that was all Bobby wanted, for he was very
fond of surprises and secrets.
He hugged Mamma, and then he hugged himself, and then he went and
hugged the kitten, and told her all about it, and what he _thought_ he
was going to have.
Well, and it all came true, and a great deal more; for Bobby had the
finest birthday that ever any little boy had, or any little girl,
either. In fact, it was so _very_ fine that I couldn’t possibly write
about it in common black ink on white paper. I should have to take
silver paper and gold ink; and I cannot do that, so I shall have to
stop now. Isn’t that too bad?