The log cabin Democrat., 1908-02-13

 over the preceding week and the week that comes after. For days and days the Small Person sneaks into the house with unnatural, unhealthy and suspicious quiet, holding queer shaped bulging packages under her coat or smuggled away in the innermost cav erns of her absurd little huff. The paste pot appears everywhere in the house. The paste brush disappears entirely and is finally found in a state of suicide and the ink-bottle. You see something on the floor that looks like . cherry. You pick it up and it is a rod paper heart. While you are look ing at it the Small Person trots into the room, gives you one mysterious glance, immediately separates you from your treasure and scampers away to hiding place under the din lngroom table, where she sits for three straight hours in a billowy pool of white paper lace, big white envelopes and numberless samples of scissors.
 Then, after these charming hours of mysterious preparation, the great day approaches. The mail man is the Kris Kringle, the Santa Claus, the good fairy. With pended shoulders he plods down the street, while the Small Person has her nose glued so tightly to the window pane that there is con- siderable question whether or not it will detach itself without the aid of . paper knife.
 At last Hooray! The bell rings. At imminent risk of catching every thing from a cold to spanking the Small Person dashes out of the front door and fairly leaps into the mail bag.
 She emerges looking like a young stationery establishment, nothing but envelopes, big, little and middle sized. With squeal and scurry she blows back into the house and opens up her treasures. There are paper trees filled with brilliant paper roses, and be- neath the forest trees sit little cupids without no clos on at all," just as If it were not February and chilly Great big, beautiful white swan cars more beautiful even than a new au- tomobile-are dragged out of their white castings, and To! when you touch & little spring somewhere the swan cars are filled with flowers and all sorts of wonderful, exquisite, beautiful things, like birds and jewels and low ing hearts. Oh, 1t is very, very de- lightful, being child on St. Valen- tines day.
 While all this excitement is beating the quiet home atmosphere into Quiv- CTS you sit down in a far-away cor ner and think of the time when you were a little girl. Perhaps you didn't have as much attention as the Small Person; perhaps things didn't some how come your way-and perhaps it's because you had so little that you are ready to make any sacrifice sc that the Small Person shall have much. It Is from deprivations that you learn what good things mean and how much they mean.
 Somehow your mind goes way back so far you wouldn't dare tell the years You wouldn't even guess them At been another world, or anyway an other life. You see a dingy old school room, where the benches were fright fully hard and where the clock was so lazy it never moved its hands al all. The days were very long for little tiny child who should have beer romping and playing out of doors.
 One day there came strange whis perings about St. Valentine You won dered if he were the man who came to trim the trees in the orchard. Il was all very new to you, because everything was new, and you had SC much to get acquainted with in a bis strange world.
 Tho other children talked knowing yv about a St. Valentines box. Mex day they filed in one after another spa into a big wooden box the!