“To-morrow is my birthday!” said Robby to Bobby.

“What is your birfday?” said Bobby to Robby.

“Why, to-morrow, Silly!” said Robby.

Now Robby was nearly six years old, and a person of great importance.

“I don’t mean that!” said little Bobby, who was not yet four. “I mean, what is our birfday? Is it good to eat?”

“Why! why-ee! Bobby Bell! Don’t you have birthdays?” cried Robby, opening his eyes.

“No!” said Bobby, opening his mouth. “I neber saw one.”

“You don’t see them!” said Robby, in a patronizing tone, “you have them! It is the day you were born, and you have a party and presents, and a birthday cake with frosting, and your name on it in pink letters, and candy and oranges, and a gold dollar with Grandmamma’s love to her dear little boy. Do you really mean that you never had one, Bobby Bell?”

Little Bobby looked very grave. “Perhaps I wasn’t born!” he said. “I’s going to ask Mamma.” So he trotted in to his mother.

“Mamma,” he said, “was I born?”

Mamma looked at him a moment in mute surprise. “Were you born, dear?” she repeated. “Yes, certainly you were born. Why do you ask me that, little boy?”

Bobby’s lip began to quiver, and his blue eyes filled with tears. “Den why,—why don’t I have birfdays?” he asked.

Mamma looked very sorry. “Dear! dear!” she said. “Now who has been telling my leap year boy about birthdays? Come and sit in Mamma’s lap and tell me all about it, and then I will tell you all about it.”

So Bobby climbed up into Mamma’s lap and hid his face in her dress, and sobbed out his little story about frosted cake and pink letters, and gold dollars with Grandmamma’s love to her dear little boy. “And I neber—I neber had any!” he said, piteously.

Then Mamma told Bobby a funny little story. It was about the years, and it told how they came along, one after another, and how each year had just the same number of days in it.

That is what each one says before it puts on its nightcap and goes to sleep.

But every fourth year there comes one who is bigger than the rest. He has one day more, and he is very proud of it, and holds his head very high, and says,—

“And so four years ago,” said Mamma, “there came one of these extra days, and it was the very best day that any year ever brought, for on that day my Bobby was born! Think of that!”

Bobby laughed and clapped his little fat hands.

“And so,” continued Mamma, “of course my Bobby couldn’t have another birthday till another long year came round, with another extra day. And now,—whisper, Bobby! now the long year has come, and next Friday is your birthday, dear, and you are going to have—oh! but I mustn’t tell!”

Mamma laughed and shook her head, and didn’t tell any more, but her eyes told a great deal; and that was all Bobby wanted, for he was very fond of surprises and secrets.

He hugged Mamma, and then he hugged himself, and then he went and hugged the kitten, and told her all about it, and what he thought he was going to have.

Well, and it all came true, and a great deal more; for Bobby had the finest birthday that ever any little boy had, or any little girl, either. In fact, it was so very fine that I couldn’t possibly write about it in common black ink on white paper. I should have to take silver paper and gold ink; and I cannot do that, so I shall have to stop now. Isn’t that too bad?