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.

The mail had brought this letter:--

"LONDON, Nov. 28th, 188-.

Wish you merry Christmas, you dearest birdlings in America! Preen your
feathers, and stretch the Birds' nest a little, if you please, and let
Uncle Jack in for the holidays. I am coming with such a trunk full of
treasures that you'll have to borrow the stocking