Carol herself knew nothing of motherly tears and fatherly anxieties;
she lived on peacefully in the room where she was born.
But you never would have known that room; for Mr. Bird had a great deal
of money, and though he felt sometimes as if he wanted to throw it all
in the ocean, since it could not buy a strong body for his little girl,
yet he was glad to make the place she lived in just as beautiful as it
could be made.
The room had been extended by the building of a large addition that
hung out over the garden below, and was so filled with windows that it
might have been a conservatory. The ones on the side were thus still
nearer the little Church of our Saviour than they used to be; those in
front looked out on the beautiful harbor, and those in the back
commanded a view of nothing in particular but a little
alley--nevertheless, they were pleasantest of all to Carol, for the
Ruggles family lived in the alley, and the nine little, middle-sized
and big Ruggles children were the source of inexhaustible interest.
The shutters could all be opened and Carol could take a real sun-bath
in this lovely glass-house, or they could all be closed when the dear
head ached or the dear eyes were tired. The carpet was of soft grey,
with clusters of green bay and holly leaves. The furniture was of
white wood, on which an artist had painted snow scenes and Christmas
trees and groups of merry children ringing bells and singing carols.
Donald had made a pretty, polished shelf and screwed it on to the
outside of the footboard, and the boys always kept this full of
blooming plants, which they changed from time to time; the head-board,
too, had a bracket on either side, where there were pots of maidenhair
ferns.
Love-birds and canaries hung in their golden houses in the windows, and
they, poor caged things, could hop as far from their wooden perches as
Carol could venture from her little white bed.
On one side of the room was a bookcase filled with hundreds--yes, I
mean it--with hundreds and hundreds of books; books with gay-colored
pictures, books without; books with black and white outline-sketches,
books with none at all; books with verses, books with stories, books
that made children laugh, and some that made them cry; books with words
of one syllable for tiny boys and girls, and books with words of
fearful length to puzzle wise ones.
This was Carol's "Circulating Library." Every Saturday she chose ten
books, jotting their names down in a little diary; into these she
slipped cards that said:
"Please keep this book two weeks and read it. With love, Carol Bird."
Then Mrs. Bird stepped into her carriage, and took the ten books to the
Childrens' Hospital, and brought home ten others that she had left
there the fortnight before.
This was a source of great happiness; for some of the Hospital children
that were old enough to print or write, and were strong enough to do
it, wrote Carol cunning little letters about the books, and she
answered them, and they grew to be friends. (It is very funny, but you
do not always have to see people to love them. Just think about it,
and see if it isn't so.)
There was a high wainscoting of wood about the room, and on top of
this, in a narrow gilt framework, ran a row of illuminated pictures,
illustrating fairy tales, all in dull blue and gold and scarlet and
silver and other lovely colors. From the door to the closet there was
the story of "The Fair One with Golden Locks;" from closet to bookcase,
ran "Puss in Boots;" from bookcase to fireplace, was "Jack the
Giant-killer;" and on the other side of the room were "Hop o' my
Thumb," "The Sleeping Beauty," and "Cinderella."
Then there was a great closet full of beautiful things to wear--but
they were all dressing-gowns and slippers and shawls; and there were
drawers full of toys and games; but they were such as you could play
with on your lap. There were no ninepins, nor balls, nor bows and
arrows, nor bean bags, nor tennis rackets; but, after all, other
children needed these more than Carol Bird, for she was always happy
and contented whatever she had or whatever she lacked; and after the
room had been made so lovely for her, on her eighth Christmas, she
always called herself, in fun, a "Bird of Paradise."
On these particular December days she was happier than usual, for Uncle
Jack was coming from Europe to spend the holidays. Dear, funny, jolly,
loving, wise Uncle Jack, who came every two or three years, and brought
so much joy with him that the world looked as black as a thunder-cloud
for a week after he went away again.