Her eyes brighten now, for a stream of little children comes pouring from that door.  “Look, mother!” she cries, “there are the children!” and the mother leaves her washing, and comes with dripping hands to see every tiny boy look up at the window and flourish his hat, and every girl wave her handkerchief, or kiss her hand.  They form a ring; there is silence for a moment and then, ’mid great flapping of dingy handkerchiefs and battered hats, a hearty cheer is heard.

“They’re cheering my birthday,” cries Ingrid.  “Miss Mary knows it’s my birthday.  Oh, isn’t it lovely!” And the thin hands eagerly waft some grateful kisses to the group below.

The scene has only lasted a few moments, the children have had their run in the fresh air, and now they go marching back, pausing at the door to wave good-by to the window far above.  The mother carries Ingrid back to her bed (it is a weary time now since those little feet touched the floor); but the bed is not as tiresome as usual, nor the washing as hard, for both hearts are full of sunshine.

Afternoon comes,—­little feet are heard climbing up the stair, and Ingrid’s name is called.  The door opens, and two flushed and breathless messengers stand on the threshold.  “We’ve brung you a birfday present,” they cry; “it’s a book, and we made it all our own se’ves, and all the chilluns helped and made somefin’ to put in it.  Miss Mary’s down stairs mindin’ the babies, and she sends you her love.  Good-by!  Happy birfday!”

“Happy birthday” indeed!  Golden, precious, love-crowned birthday!  Was ever such a book, so full of sweet messages and tender thoughts!

Ingrid knows how baby Tim must have labored to sew that red circle, how John Jacob toiled over that weaving-mat, and Elsa carefully folded the drove of little pigs.  Everybody thought of her, and all the “chilluns” helped, and how dear is the tangible outcome of the thoughts and the helping!

* * * * *

Far back in the childhood of the world, the long-haired savage,” woaded, winter-clad in skins,” went roaming for his food wherever he might find it.  He dug roots from the ground, he searched for berries and fruits, he hid behind rocks to leap upon his living prey, yet often went hungry to his lair at night, if the root-crop were short, or the wild beast wary.

But if the day had been a fortunate one, if his own stomach were filled and his body sheltered, little cared he whether long-haired savage number two were hungry and cold.  “Every one for himself,” would he say, as he rolled himself in his skins, “and the cave-bear, or any other handy beast, take the hindmost.”  The simplicity of his mental state, his complete freedom from responsibility, assure us that his digestion of the raw flesh and the tough roots must have been perfection, and the sleep in those furred skins a dreamless one.