to
see the Doll.

"Oh, here is a toy like myself!" said the Monkey, speaking in a
whisper. "How do you do?" he went on, sitting up and bowing to his new
acquaintance. "Are you any relation to the Sawdust Doll?" he asked
politely.

"I'm a second or third cousin," was the answer. "She is stuffed with
sawdust, but I am stuffed with cotton."

"Then I will call you Miss Cotton Doll," went on the Monkey. "What
brought you here? Were you so bad in school that you had to be shut up
in a desk?"

"No, not exactly. But a little girl named Mary brought me in her school
bag yesterday, and she took me out in the study hour, and the teacher
said it was wrong. So she took me away from the little girl named Mary."

"I thought Mary brought a lamb to school," said the Monkey on a Stick,
who, having lived in a toy store, of course knew all about toy books
and Mother Goose verses.

"That was another Mary," went on the Cotton Doll. "Besides Mary didn't
_bring_ the lamb to school, it _followed_ her one day."

"Oh, so it did--I had forgotten," went on the Monkey.

"But my Mary _brought_ me to school," said the Cotton Doll, "and her
teacher took me away. She put me in this desk drawer; the teacher did."

"Well, now we're here, let's have some fun," said the Monkey to the
Cotton Doll after a bit. "We are all alone by ourselves, and we can do
as we please. Let's look around and play. We can't stand up, as the
drawer isn't high enough, but we can crawl on our knees. Let's see what
else is here."

"All right," agreed the Cotton Doll. So while the teacher was hearing
the lessons of Herbert, Madeline and the other boys and girls, the
Monkey (crawling off his stick for the time being) and the Cotton Doll
went creeping on their hands and knees around the drawer.

"Let's look in the bottle of ink," proposed the Monkey, as he crawled
near it, and began pulling at the cork.

"Oh, don't do that!" cried the Cotton Doll, in a whisper, of course.
"Don't open it! You'll get all black!"

"Oh, if it's black ink, I know what we can do!" said the Monkey. "We can
black up like colored minstrels, and have a little show in here by
ourselves. I'll black your face with the ink, and you can black mine,
though I am pretty brown now."

"But I don't want my face blacked with ink!" cried the Cotton Doll, as
the Monkey took the cork from the bottle. "I don't want to be a
minstrel!"

"Oh, but you must!" insisted the Monkey, laughing, and, catching hold of