"
"This is my birth-day; I am twenty years old," said Mae, "Why, what are
you doing?" For Norman had bent down to the sand also, and had drawn a
queer little figure there.
"That is you when you were one year old," he laughed, "and you could
only crow and kick your small feet, and smile now and then, and cry the
rest of the time."
"That is about all I can do yet," said Mae.
"Here comes number two," and he drew his hand across the sand and
smoothed the baby image away, leaving in its place a round, sturdy
little creature, poised dangerously on one foot. "You have walked alone,
and you have called your father's name, and you're a wonderful child by
this time."
"This is the three-year-old, white aprons and curls, please observe.
Now, you recite 'Dickery, dickery dock' and 'I want to be an angel,' and
you have cut all your wisdom teeth."
"O, Mr. Mann, I haven't cut them yet. Babies don't have them."
"Don't they? Well, you have other teeth in their place, white and
sharp--but by this time you are four years old.
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