Stevie could hardly believe his eyes. But it was true, quite true, all
the same for that, and he opened his blue eyes wider and wider till
mother laughed and kissed them, and lifted him up into his high chair,
saying, "Yes, Stevie, they are yours, your very own, and grandpa sent
them to you because he remembered your birthday." Such a beautiful,
sweet-smelling leather case it was, lined with purple velvet, and inside
it a silver fork with a pretty "S" on the handle, and a knife that would
really _cut_. His first knife and fork! Oh, how Stevie had longed for
them! And now that they had come, his very own, he felt quite a man,
almost like father.
"Stevie must learn to handle them nicely, ready to show grandpa when he
comes. Not that way, pet! Let the back of the blade look up to the
ceiling, like little birdies after they drink, and keep the sharp edge
down to the plate, and then little fingers won't be cut."
"All alone by myself, mother? all alone by myself?" cried Stevie
eagerly; but mother stood beside him till the pie was cut up, and the
pretty knife and fork had been laid aside to be washed and put back in
their velvet case.
Stevie learned to handle his knife and fork quite nicely in a few days,
but he found it rather hard that he was never allowed to have them to
play with. He used them at the table and that was all. The day grandpa
came Stevie was all excitement to show him how well he could use his
beautiful present. Mother had gone to the station to meet him, and it
seemed that the long morning of waiting would never be over. But twelve
o'clock came at last, and nurse gave Stevie a biscuit and an apple, and
sent him out in the garden so that he should not disturb baby's nap. He
ran away down to the fountain and began to play dinner. Then he thought
of his dear knife and fork. He knew just where they were, but he had
been told never to touch them. He did want them so much, and they _were_
his own. The apple would seem just like a real dinner if he only had
them. Stevie ran into the dining-room and mounted the chair by the
sideboard. For a moment he stopped; for it seemed as if some one said,
"Don't touch, Stevie!" quite loud in his ear, but only the clock went
"Tick, tack, tick, tack!" There was only the little voice of conscience
_inside_ Stevie to say "Don't touch;" and he wouldn't listen to that, so
he ran away with the pretty case in his hand.
Stevie played dinner, and old gray pussy sat on the fountain basin and
looked at him. She played grandpa, at least Stevie said so; but somehow
the apple didn't taste so sweet as at first, and he cut his thumb a
little, and thought he would put the knife and fork back. Back in their
case he did put them, clip went the little silver fastening, Pussy
arched her back and swelled her tail, for the dog belonging to the baker
had just come through the gate with his master. There was a rush and a
tussle, and the baker ran to Stevie; but something had gone splash! into
the fountain, and Stevie ran away crying. How everybody did _hunt_ for
that knife and fork, while Stevie sat very pale and quiet, holding one
fat thumb hidden by his hand.
Grandpa sat next to the high-chair. "Cheer up, little man: it will be
found."