THE STORY OF A
WOOLLY DOG

“Now, I’m All Right,” Laughed the Clown.

The Story of a Woolly Dog.

Frontispiece—(Page [19])

MAKE BELIEVE STORIES
(Trade Mark Registered)

THE STORY OF A
WOOLLY DOG
BY
LAURA LEE HOPE
Author of “The Story of a Sawdust Doll,” “The Story
of a Stuffed Elephant,” “The Bobbsey Twins
Series,” “The Six Little Bunker Series,”
“The Bunny Brown Series,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
HARRY L. SMITH
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1923, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP

The Story of a Woolly Dog

CONTENTS

THE STORY OF A
WOOLLY DOG

CHAPTER I
POOR TOYS

“Well, he certainly is the finest toy in my little shop, but what good does that do if I can’t sell him? His wool is very soft, and he looks so natural that I can almost hear him bark. But, oh dear! if I don’t sell him—or sell some of the toys soon—I can’t pay my rent and I’ll be turned out! Oh, if my boy Jimmie would only come home from the sea with the gold he said he’d bring to me!”

A sad-faced, poor, little, old lady moved slowly about a poor little store on a side street. In the small show window were a few notions—pins, needles and thread, and a few toys.

On a shelf near the window were other toys. But they were a very poor and cheap lot, made to sell to poor children who had only a few pennies. There were dolls that cost five cents—dolls with only a thin little calico dress on, and nothing else. There were jumping jacks that could be had for as little as three pennies, and there were two-cent tops and one-cent marbles.

“The Woolly Dog is the best toy of all,” went on Mrs. Clark, who kept the little store. “The agent said I could sell him for a good sum and make money on him. Certainly he is a fine toy and I did not have to pay very much, and, since I gave him a bath and cleaned him, he looks good enough to be in a rich store.

“But, oh dear! I don’t know! If I don’t sell something soon I don’t know where I’m going to make up the rent money! Oh, this is a hard world!”

Poor Mrs. Clark sat down on a stool behind the counter and waited for customers to come in. But there was little buying that day. Christmas had passed, and though she had done pretty well in trade around the holidays, now but few children, or grown-ups, either, came in to spend their money. Perhaps they had spent it all for Christmas gifts.

“If I could only sell the Woolly Dog!” sighed Mrs. Clark again, and she wiped some tears from her eyes, for she was very sad and in trouble.

“I wish I could help her,” thought the Woolly Dog to himself. He did not dare speak out loud, though he could talk in toy language when no real persons were near by. “Yes, I wish I could help her, but I can’t go out and sell myself, or I would. This isn’t the kind of a store where rich customers will come.”

The Woolly Dog looked around at the poor toys on the same shelf with him. He was the most expensive of the lot.

As Mrs. Clark had said, some time ago, when she bought her little stock of toys from an agent, he had offered her this Woolly Dog.

“It’s a sample, Mrs. Clark,” said the man. “I have carried him around in my satchel for a long time, and his white wool is rather dirty. But he isn’t broken, and if you were to wash him with soap and water he’d be as clean as a whistle.”

“Speaking of whistles,” said Mrs. Clark, “the last ones I got from you didn’t whistle loud enough, some boys said. They brought them back and I had to return them their pennies.”

“Well, I have some louder whistles now,” went on the agent. “And I’ll allow you for the ones that didn’t sell. But what about this Woolly Dog? I’ll let you have him cheap. You can wash him, put him in the window, and I’m sure you’ll sell him. You should ask a good price, too, for this is one of the most expensive toys on the market.”

“All right, I’ll take him,” said Mrs. Clark.

And so she had bought the Woolly Dog. She had washed him, putting him right into a tub with soap and warm water.

“Oh, that was a terrible time for me!” said the Woolly Dog, telling of it afterward to his friend, the three-cent Jumping Jack. “I surely thought I would drown, and the soap got in my eyes! Burr-r-r-r!”

“If that had happened to me all my paint would have washed off,” said the three-cent Jumping Jack, one of the very cheapest of the poor toys.

You see the toys could talk among themselves when no children or grown-ups were there to listen.

“Well, I felt dreadfully about it for a while,” went on the Woolly Dog. “But after Mrs. Clark had washed me nicely she put me in the warm sun and I dried out.”

“You are quite white and fluffy now,” said the Jumping Jack.

“Yes, I believe I am considered a very good sort of toy,” admitted the Woolly Dog, trying not to speak proudly. “I am made of real lamb’s wool, you know.”

“I can see that,” put in a Calico-Dressed Doll, who sold for five cents—very little for a doll, I’m sure. “It is very nice of you to stay here among such poor toys as we are,” went on the Doll.

“Oh, I think it is quite jolly here!” barked the Woolly Dog. “It’s such a cute little store, you know!”

“But Mrs. Clark does hardly any business,” said the Jumping Jack. “I was one of the lot of a dozen she bought from the agent, and there are eight of us left. She’ll never get rich selling toys, I’m afraid.”

“I’m afraid not,” agreed the Woolly Dog. “But if she could sell me and get the price I ought to bring, she would have several dollars. I ought to be sold for five dollars, but I heard the agent say she could let me go for three.”

“Three dollars! Think of that!” exclaimed the Calico-Dressed Doll. “That’s almost a million, isn’t it?”

“Almost, but not quite,” answered the Woolly Dog, and again he did not speak proudly as some toys might have done.

So it had come about that the Woolly Dog was among the poor toys in Mrs. Clark’s little store—the best toy of all, it might be said of the Woolly Dog. Mrs. Clark knew this, and she hoped the Woolly Dog would soon sell, so she might get enough money to make up the full amount for the rent, which must be paid in a day or two.

“I need just that three dollars the Woolly Dog would bring,” sighed the poor old lady. “Or if my son Jimmie would come home, he would pay the rent.”

But Jimmie was a sailor lad and at this time was far away, on a sort of treasure hunt. He hoped to come back with gold to give his mother, and he had written some letters in which he said he might be home almost any day now.

“But my eyes are weary watching for him,” sighed Mrs. Clark.

She moved about her store, looking at the few things she had to sell. After her husband had died she had started the store. For a time she did fairly well, but times grew hard and she lived in a poor neighborhood, where few people had money to spend on toys. They bought needles, thread and pins of Mrs. Clark, but there is not much money to be had selling these.

“I think I’ll put the Woolly Dog back in the window,” said Mrs. Clark to herself, after dusting her store for the day. “He will be seen better there, but I don’t like to keep him in the window too long, for the sun might take the curl out of his wool. But I’ll put him there this afternoon and leave him there to-morrow. Maybe someone will see him and buy him. True, I’ve had him in the window before and no one even came in to ask how much he would cost. But I’ll try it again.”

The Woolly Dog was glad to hear Mrs. Clark say this, for he liked being in the show window. There was more to be seen from the window—he could watch the children playing in the street and hear their laughter.

Of course he liked being on the shelf with the other toys, but he felt, deep down inside him, that it would be best for him to be sold so Mrs. Clark could get the money for her rent.

“Into the window you go, my friend!” said the storekeeper lady, as she patted the Woolly Dog to get out of his coat any dust that might make him look dingy. “Into the window you go, and may someone buy you!”

Not long after the Dog had been placed in the window with the needles, pins and spools of thread, a boy and a girl pressed their little noses up against the glass, making them look quite flat.

“Oh, see the new dog in the window!” cried the girl.

“’Tisn’t a new dog. I’ve seen him before,” said the boy.

“Well, he looks new to me,” went on the girl. “I wonder how much he costs.”

“I guess more’n a dollar, Lizzie.”

“Oh, he couldn’t!” gasped the little girl. “No toy could cost that much—not ever, Sammie!”

“Pooh! You just ought to see some of the toys in the stores on Main Street!” replied Sammie. “Why, I’ve seen price tickets on ’em marked—ten dollars!”

“Oh, Sammie! No!”

“Yes, I have! Say, rich people don’t care what they spend for toys!”

“Oh, it must be lovely to be rich,” sighed Lizzie. “But, anyhow, we can wish we had this Woolly Dog.”

“A lot of good that will do!” muttered Sammie. “Come on, we have to go to the store for half a pound of sugar. We haven’t any money for toys.”

“No, I s’pose not,” sighed his sister. “Good-bye, Woolly Dog!” she called back to the toy in the window, waving her hand.

The afternoon passed. Though many children of the neighborhood looked in Mrs. Clark’s window—some of the boys and girls wishing they might buy the Woolly Dog—no one purchased the expensive toy.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Mrs. Clark, when night came and she had to close her store without having sold the Woolly Dog. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get the rent money!”

With the coming of night a change took place among the toys. When the store window curtain was pulled down, the doors closed and when Mrs. Clark had gone to bed, wishing she might dream of her son, there was a movement among the Dolls, the Jumping Jacks and the Wooden Animals in the cheap Noah’s Arks.

“I say, Woolly Dog!” called a voice, “are you ready for some fun?”

“Of course I am,” answered the Woolly Dog. “What do you want to do?”

“Will you give me a ride on your back?” asked a little Rubber Clown, who had a whistle in his back that squeaked when you squeezed him.

“Surely, I’ll give you a ride on my back,” said the Woolly Dog kindly. “Where are you?”

“Up on the shelf over your head. Wait a minute and I’ll jump down,” said the Rubber Clown.

“Oh, now for some fun!” exclaimed the Calico-Dressed Doll.

CHAPTER II
A RICH MAN

“Get ready down there! I’m coming!” called the Rubber Clown to the Woolly Dog. “Is your back strong enough to hold me if I jump?”

“Indeed it is,” answered the Dog. “And I’ll give you a fine ride around the show window.”

If you have read some of the other books in these Make Believe Stories you know that the toys told about could pretend to come to life, move about and play among themselves, as well as talk. But of course all this must be done when no human eyes see them.

And as Mrs. Clark had gone to bed, and as her son Jimmie, the sailor lad, was far away at sea, there was no one to spy on the Woolly Dog, the Rubber Clown, or the other playthings. They could do as they pleased during the night.

“Well, here I come!” cried the Rubber Clown. He was fat, jolly and good-natured even though he was a poor toy, selling for only five cents. And, though he had a tin whistle in his back, he was not at all proud.

The Rubber Clown moved over to the edge of the shelf on which he had been standing for several weeks, as no one seemed to care to buy him. Below him was the platform—or floor—of the show window, where, at this time, the Woolly Dog was the only toy.

“Wait a minute,” barked the Woolly Dog, as he looked up at the Clown, who was about to jump.

“What’s the matter?” the Rubber Clown wanted to know.

“I want to move over a little closer to you,” went on the Dog. “You might not land on my back where I am.”

The Dog, who had fat little stuffed legs, moved them slowly to and fro, and walked over just beneath the end of the toy shelf.

“One,” began the Clown, counting before he leaped. “Two——”

“Wait a minute!” barked the Woolly Dog again.

“What’s the matter now?” the Clown asked.

“Mind the needles and pins,” warned the Dog. “If you land on them you’ll be stuck.”

“I intend to land on your soft, woolly back,” laughed the Clown. “Three!” he cried, finishing his count. “Here I come!”

With that he toppled off the shelf, turning two somersaults as he went down, for he was quite an acrobat, was this Clown.

“Oh, isn’t that perfectly wonderful?” gasped one Calico-Dressed Doll to another.

“Gorgeous!” was the reply. “It’s as good as going to a circus. I didn’t know the Rubber Clown could turn somersaults.”

“Pooh! You ought to see me somersault!” boasted one of the cheap Jumping Jacks. “If I could get rid of this stick and the strings that jiggle my legs I’d show you some somersaulting!”

The Jumping Jack was afraid lest the Calico-Dressed Dolls think too much of the Rubber Clown. The Jumping Jack was a bit jealous, I’m thinking.

Down, down, down, went the Clown, turning over and over as he aimed to land on the Woolly Dog’s back to get a ride.

“Hi! Yi!” yelled the Rubber Clown, in toy language of course. “Here I come!”

“He’s a great trickster,” said a little Penny China Doll.

Then the Rubber Clown did a trick he had not counted on. He missed landing on the Woolly Dog’s back and hit the floor of the show window with both feet. And, being made of rubber, the Clown did just what I think you have guessed he did—he bounced high up in the air. Up he bounded!

“Hold on there! I say! what are you doing?” cried the Woolly Dog. “I thought you were going to ride on my back!”

“I—thought—so—too!” gasped the Clown. He had to speak in jerks because his breath was bounced out of him.

The Rubber Clown bounded nearly as high as the shelf from which he had turned a somersault and then down to the floor of the window he went again.

“Come on—get up on my back!” barked the Dog.

The Clown tried, but he could not. Up in the air he sprang again, like a rubber ball.

“Oh, isn’t this exciting!” cried the Penny China Doll.

“I should say it was!” agreed the Jumping Jack. “It’s the best fun I’ve seen in a long while.”

“It may be—fun for—you,” gasped the Clown. “But it—isn’t any—fun for—me!”

Up and down he bounced, a little less and a little slower each time until at last he bounded only as high as the Woolly Dog’s back.

“Now’s your chance. I’ll run under you and you can sit on me!” barked the fluffy toy.

And that’s just what he did. When the Clown was up in the air the Woolly Dog moved over a bit and stood squarely beneath the Clown. Down came the rubber toy, landing safely on the Dog’s back. He bounced up a little, but not much, for you know rubber will not rebound from anything soft, like a bed. And the Dog’s back was even softer than a hair mattress.

“Now I’m all right,” laughed the Clown. “I thought I’d never get here, though. But here I am! Start off, if you please, Woolly Dog. But wait a minute! I’ll blow my whistle!”

The Rubber Clown made a low bow, compressing the air inside his hollow body just as if he had been squeezed. Out through the tin hole in his back rushed the air, making a whistling sound. The other toys laughed and the Woolly Dog barked, and then he trotted around and gave the Rubber Clown a fine ride in the show window.

Light came in from a street lamp through a crack in the window curtain, so the toys could see to play about. And fine fun they had! After the Clown had been given a ride, the Dog kindly let some of the Dolls get up on his back and, much to their delight, he paraded them around.

The Jumping Jacks did some tricks and the Animals from the Noah’s Ark marched around like a circus procession.

But at last the Clown cried:

“Daylight is coming! To your places, all of you!”

For the coming of daylight meant that Mrs. Clark would open the store for the day’s business, and then the toys could neither speak nor move, for human eyes would see them.

Up to his shelf leaped the Rubber Clown, the Calico-Dressed Dolls laid themselves out straight in their boxes. The Penny China Doll took her place near the Tops and the Woolly Dog walked to the middle of the show window where he had been put so passersby would best notice him.

The store became lighter. The street lamps were put out one by one, and the sun began to shine.

“Another day has begun,” said Mrs. Clark, as she entered her store to raise the curtain. “I certainly hope I do more business to-day than I did yesterday. Rent time is coming very near and I need three dollars! If I could only sell the Woolly Dog!”

She put her tiny stock of toys and goods in order, got her breakfast and then sat down to wait for two things. One was the postman who, she hoped, would bring her a letter from her sailor son. The other was for customers, especially a customer who would buy the Woolly Dog.

It was almost noon when a man passed through the street on which Mrs. Clark’s store stood. This man wore very good clothes, and he carried a cane with a gold head. He looked to be a very rich man, and he was.

“But I don’t see why a rich man is walking through our poor street,” said Lizzie to Sammie.

“Maybe he’s looking for a washerwoman for his wife,” suggested Sammie. Many came to the street for that purpose.

However, Mr. Theodore Blakeley, for that was his name, had not come to Hoyt Street to look for a laundress. He had never been in that street before—in fact, he hardly knew its name or that there was such a street—and his coming to it was a sort of accident.

That morning he had started out in his automobile to go down town to business. He did not like to travel in trolley cars, and as for a jitney, he had never ridden in one in his life!

But even rich men, in autos, have their troubles, and the trouble that came to Mr. Blakeley was that, half way to his office, something made a hole in one of the tires. It was punctured near Hoyt Street, where Mrs. Clark had her shop.

“I shall have to change a tire, sir,” said the chauffeur, touching his hat to Mr. Blakeley.

“Hum! That means delay, I suppose. I think I’ll walk on. It isn’t far, is it, James?”

“No, sir, not if you take the short cut through Hoyt Street.”

“All right, I’ll do it. Come for me this evening, as usual.”

“Yes, sir.”

So the rich Mr. Blakeley alighted from his automobile and started to walk through Hoyt Street—a place where, as far as he could remember, he had never before been. It was not often that rich and well-dressed men were seen there.

And, as it happened, Mr. Blakeley passed Mrs. Clark’s poor little store. And just then the sun shone on the Woolly Dog—on his clean, white, curling coat of lamb’s wool.

“Bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Blakeley, for he was rather an old-fashioned gentleman. “Bless me! There’s the very thing for Donald’s birthday! It will save me going down town.”

Donald Cressey was the son of Mr. Blakeley’s sister, and the boy was a great favorite of his uncle. Mr. Blakeley’s sister was not as rich as was he, and she could not afford to buy expensive presents. But Mr. Blakeley always saw to it that on Donald’s birthday and at Christmas the boy had something nice.

“Yes, that Woolly Dog will just do for Donald,” went on Mr. Blakeley. “He can’t hurt himself with it, and he can have lots of fun. I’m glad I remembered it was his birthday—came near forgetting it. And it’s lucky I happened to walk through this street. I didn’t know they kept toys here. I’ll go in and get that Dog.”

Then Mr. Blakeley opened the door of Mrs. Clark’s poor little store and went inside.

CHAPTER III
THE WOOLLY DOG’S NEW HOME

“Something I can do for you?” asked Mrs. Clark, “all in a flutter,” she said afterward to her neighbor, Mrs. Elkton, who kept a little grocery store. “The idea,” said Mrs. Clark, “of a rich gentleman like him walking into my poor little place!”

“That Woolly Dog in your window,” answered Mr. Blakeley. “I’ll take it. My nephew’s birthday,” he added, with a smile. Perhaps he thought if he didn’t say this that Mrs. Clark might think he wanted the Woolly Dog for himself. “Wrap it up, please.”

Mrs. Clark was still “all in a flutter.” Never before, in all the years that she had kept store, had anyone bought anything of her without asking the price. And often, when she told them the price, little as it was, the customer walked out without buying.

And Mr. Blakeley had said:

“I’ll take it!”

Just like that—poof!

Mrs. Clark reached over in the show window and picked up the Woolly Dog. She held him firmly in her hand, for her fingers trembled a bit and she did not want to drop the white, clean toy in the dust.

“Oh, I wonder what is going to happen to me?” thought the Woolly Dog, as he felt himself lifted up. “I think there is going to be a great change! Goodness knows I hope so! I hope I’m sold, for Mrs. Clark’s sake. Poor woman, she needs the money I’ll bring.

“Though I shall feel sad at leaving my friends, the poor toys, still, I was shut up in the agent’s sample valise so long that, really, I have had no adventures worth speaking about. Now I feel I am to see life.” So thought the Woolly Dog.

“This is—er—rather an expensive toy,” said Mrs. Clark slowly, as she smoothed the Dog’s wool. “Though it is considered one of the best. The price—er—the price—is—three dollars!”

She almost whispered those last two words, so fearful was she of shocking Mr. Blakeley.

“Eh—what’s that?” he asked, for he was a trifle deaf.

“The price is—three dollars! I’m afraid that’s rather expensive. I don’t carry much in that line—not in this neighborhood—but really I ought to get three dollars for the Dog and——”

“Why, you’re going to get three dollars for him,” chuckled Mr. Blakeley. “I never try to beat down a price. It looks worth it to me. I’ve seen some no better on Main Street that were marked five dollars. I think I’m getting a bargain. Donald will like it, I’m sure. Wrap it up, please, I’m in a hurry—my car broke down.”

With fingers that still trembled, Mrs. Clark wrapped the Woolly Dog in paper and tied it about with cord.

“Hum! This isn’t very pleasant,” thought the Woolly Dog to himself. “But I suppose it can’t last forever. When I get to Donald’s house—wherever that may be—I am sure my adventures will begin. But I wish I could have said good-bye to the poor toys.”

The poor toys themselves wished they might bid farewell to their expensive friend, the Woolly Dog, but it could not be. They dared not move or speak while human eyes were watching.

“There you are, madam, three dollars,” murmured Mr. Blakeley, as he passed over some crisp bills. “And I’m sure I’m quite pleased to get this toy for Donald. Good-morning!”

And out he walked.

“But, my stars! you should have seen the money in his pocketbook when he opened it to pay me the three dollars,” said Mrs. Clark afterward. “Honestly, I never knew men carried so much! But I’m thankful to get the three, as I needed just them to make up my rent. Now I won’t worry for another month, and by that time Jimmie may come home with the gold he is always talking about.” And a few weeks later Jimmie came home and his mother was no longer poor, for the sailor lad had found gold.

Humming to himself a little song, and quite pleased with his early morning shopping, even though the day had started with an accident to his automobile, Mr. Blakeley kept on through Hoyt Street with the paper parcel containing the Woolly Dog.

“Oh, Sammie! He’s bought it!” cried a girl’s voice.

“Who’s bought what?” asked her brother.

“The rich man has bought the big Woolly Dog from Mrs. Clark,” answered Lizzie. “I saw her take it out of the window and a man has it.”

“He has? Well, I’ll buy one like it some day when I get rich!” joked Sammie. “Hey, Timmie,” he went on, calling to another boy, “come on over. I know where there’s a dandy mud puddle!”

Mr. Blakeley, unaware of all the stir he had caused in that poor Hoyt Street by buying so costly a toy, kept on to his office. He was a very important man in business and he found clerks, secretaries and stenographers waiting for him to start the day’s affairs.

But, first of all, after he had taken off his hat, Mr. Blakeley handed to his private secretary the bundle he had brought from Mrs. Clark’s store.

“Take good care of that,” said the rich man to his secretary, Miss Moore. “There’s a dog in it!”

“A dog, Mr. Blakeley? Oh——”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “But don’t be afraid. He can’t bite! Wait, I’ll show him to you.”

He opened one end of the paper parcel and let the Woolly Dog be seen.

“Oh, isn’t he cute!” exclaimed Miss Moore, with a smile. Then she looked rather strangely at her employer.

“It isn’t for me,” went on Mr. Blakeley, with another chuckle. “It’s Donald’s birthday and I’m going to stop at his house this afternoon. Please don’t let me forget this Dog when James comes for me.”

“I’ll remind you, Mr. Blakeley.”

Then the day’s work began in Mr. Blakeley’s office. Clerks came and went, other business men dropped in to talk over money matters, and through it all the Woolly Dog lay wrapped in the paper on Mr. Blakeley’s desk. Once, when the wind started to blow away a bundle of checks, Miss Moore put the Woolly Dog on them as a weight to hold them down.

But the Woolly Dog knew nothing of this, though, even if he had known that he was guarding thousands of dollars I do not believe he would have been proud.

He was a very good and sensible Woolly Dog.

At last the business day came to an end. Mr. Blakeley finished signing papers and dictating letters. He reached for his hat when the porter came in to say that James and the automobile were outside.

“Don’t forget the Woolly Dog!” called Miss Moore, as she saw Mr. Blakeley about to leave his office without the bundle.

“Bless me! I should say not!” he cried. “Donald wouldn’t know what to think if I drove up on his birthday without a present! Come on, Doggie,” and he whistled a little, pretending that the Woolly Dog in the parcel was alive.

Miss Moore laughed to see her employer so jolly. As for the plaything, well, the Woolly Dog was alive, in a way, for he could hear the whistle, though of course he dared not bark in answer.

“Now I am traveling again,” thought the Dog to himself, as he felt Mr. Blakeley carrying him out to the car. James had mended the puncture and had called at the rich man’s office as he did every afternoon.

“Home, sir?” asked James, touching his cap as he closed the door after Mr. Blakeley had entered the car.

“No, to my sister’s house. You know where it is, James?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s Donald’s birthday,” explained Mr. Blakeley, and the chauffeur smiled as he caught a glimpse, through the torn paper, of the Woolly Dog.

Donald Cressey lived with his father and mother in a pleasant little house just outside the big city, and when Donald’s mother saw her brother’s large car coming to a stop in front of her home she called:

“Oh, Donald, here’s Uncle Teddy!”

“Has he brought my birthday present?” asked the little boy, as he eagerly raced to the door.

“You mustn’t expect Uncle Teddy to bring you a present each birthday,” replied his mother, for she did not want Donald to look for too much.

“Oh, but he always brings me something when I get a year older,” the boy murmured. “Don’t you think he will this time?”

Mrs. Cressey did not answer. She was watching her brother get out of his car. And then she and Donald, at the same time, saw the paper bundle.

“Oh, he has it! He has it!” cried Donald, jumping up and down for joy. A moment later he was in his uncle’s arms and was trying to loosen the paper and string from around the present.

And when he saw the pretty, white Woolly Dog the boy cried:

“Oh, that’s just what I wanted! Now I can have some fun!”

“You mustn’t get it dirty,” warned his mother. “It is a beautiful dog, Teddy,” she said to her brother. “But Donald must not soil it. Be careful—don’t drop it.”

“The Dog will wash. The lady I bought it of said so,” went on Donald’s uncle. “She washed it herself once, she said. I guess Donald won’t hurt it. Let him play with it and have a good time.”

And Donald certainly had a good time with the Woolly Dog. He hugged it close to him, and squeezed it hard, but the Woolly Dog did not mind that, for he was stuffed with soft cotton and could stand a great deal of squeezing.

“He seems to like it,” said Donald’s mother. “You were very kind to remember him, Teddy.”

“I thought of his birthday this morning when I happened to pass a toy store,” and Mr. Blakeley told about walking through Hoyt Street.

Donald thanked his uncle, and then showed him some of the other presents he had received. One was a little toy train of cars, and when Donald was telling his uncle that they would run on a tin track, suddenly the door of the room burst open and in rushed a little golden-haired creature with bright, flashing eyes. She caught sight of the new gift and cried:

“Oh, I wants Woolly Dog! I wants him! I hab him!”

And before Donald could save his new toy, his little sister, Jane, caught up the Woolly Dog in her arms and ran out of the room.

“Here! Come back! Come back with my Woolly Dog!” shouted Donald, but Jane ran down the hall.

CHAPTER IV
WHAT LITTLE JANE DID

Jane, who was Donald’s little sister, did not exactly know what she was going to do with the Woolly Dog which she had picked up so quickly and run away with. Jane was like that—she often took Donald’s toys and tried to keep them for herself, for she was too small to know any better.

Often Donald, being a kind boy, would let his little sister keep the things she took—at least, he would let her play with them until he wanted them, and by that time Jane was tired of them and wanted something else.

This time the little girl had seen Donald’s new Woolly Dog and had used her chance to get it. She thought perhaps she could go to a room by herself and play with the new toy. But Donald was too quick for her. Down the hall after his sister he ran, still shouting:

“Come back with my Dog! Come back with my Dog!”

“Jane! Jane! You mustn’t take Donald’s new birthday gift!” exclaimed Mrs. Cressey.

“Oh, don’t take it away from her,” begged Uncle Teddy. “I’ll get Donald a new one.”

“No, that must not be,” said Mrs. Cressey. “Jane must learn that certain things belong to Donald and others to her. She will grow up to be a selfish little girl if I let her have her way too much. Jane, Jane, come back with Donald’s Dog, please!”

But Jane did not come back. She ran into one room, out through a side door, and down another hall, all the while clutching the Woolly Dog close in her arms. After her ran her mother, Donald, and even Uncle Teddy, who was laughing and chuckling in glee.

“Even if Jane is a little bad, I haven’t had so much fun in a long while,” thought Mr. Blakeley to himself. “She’s a regular tyke, that’s what she is. Ha! Ha! She certainly can run! The little tyke!”

And run with the Woolly Dog, Jane surely did. As for that toy, he did not know what to think, and of course he could say or do nothing while Jane had him.

“Dear me!” thought the Woolly Dog, “I’m afraid I’m not going to have as much fun here as I had hoped. I might better have been left in Mrs. Clark’s little store, poor as it was. At least it was peaceable and quiet there.”

But other and more dreadful things were to happen to the Woolly Dog. His adventures were just beginning. Jane squeezed him so tightly that, had he been a real dog, he would have howled with pain. But, being only a Woolly Dog, stuffed with cotton, he dared not cry out. Perhaps if there had been a squeaker in him, or a tin whistle, such as was in the Rubber Clown, he might have made a noise.

But, as it was, the Woolly Dog kept silent, and at last Jane ran with him into another room, slammed the door and looked around. What was she going to do next, the Woolly Dog wanted to know.

“I hide, ’at’s what I do; I hide!” said little Jane to herself. “I hide, an’ Woolly Dog hide. Den dey tan’t find us!” She was so excited that she talked “baby talk,” of which her mother had almost cured her.

In another moment the little girl had seen a good place to hide—under the couch in the room where she had run to get away from Donald, her mother and Uncle Teddy. Under the couch, still closely hugging the Woolly Dog, rolled little Jane. She laughed and chuckled to herself to think how she would fool those looking for her.

And fool them she did, for, a moment later, into the room hurried the three—Donald in the lead, then his mother, and lastly Uncle Teddy, who was puffing and blowing, for he was rather fat and rather old and not used to running.

“Jane! Jane! Where are you? Where’s my Woolly Dog?” cried Donald.

Jane, under the conch, did not answer.

“She isn’t in here, I guess,” said Mother Cressey.

“She came in here,” said Uncle Teddy. “I heard the door slam.”

“She must have gone out again,” went on Donald’s mother. “She’s a little rascal, that’s what Jane is, sometimes. And when she wants to, she can be as good as gold—or pie.”

“Pie is better than gold,” chuckled Uncle Teddy. “I wish you could give me a piece, Mabel,” he said. “No pie I get, even in the best restaurants, is like yours.”

“I’ll give you some,” said his sister.

“After we find Jane,” he suggested. “Maybe she’ll want some, too.”

“I do,” said Donald. “But first I want my Woolly Dog.”

“Jane shouldn’t have taken it,” said his mother. “Jane! Jane! Where are you?” she called again.

But Jane, hidden under the couch with the Woolly Dog, did not answer, and, as the couch had a covering on, which came nearly to the floor, she could not be seen.

“I guess she ran up to the playroom,” said Donald.

Jane wanted to laugh out loud as she thought how she was fooling them all. And, to keep from laughing, by which sound they would know where she was, the little girl stuffed into her mouth the tail of the Woolly Dog.

For a time this held back her laugh, but the fuzzy tail tickled Jane, and she felt like sneezing. However, she held back the sneeze and did not “ker-choo” until she heard those who were looking for her leave the room. Then Jane laughed and sneezed.

“Dear me,” thought the Woolly Dog, “I’m glad she didn’t sneeze when she had my tail in her mouth! She might have bitten it off. Oh, but what is going to happen? So much excitement! It wouldn’t be like this in the store if I had lived there for a whole year!”

But more was yet to come.

Jane, under the couch, listened until she was sure no one was in the room but herself and the Woolly Dog. Sometimes Donald played a trick on her when she was hiding by pretending to go out of the room where she was and then tiptoeing back softly to be ready to catch her.

So Jane peeped out from under the edge of the couch and then, making sure no one was in sight, she rolled out as she had rolled under, with the Woolly Dog in her arms.

“My goodness!” thought the toy, “if she rolls much more I’ll get as dizzy as if I had chased my tail.”

But Jane did not intend to do much rolling. She had another plan in her queer little head. So, once out from under the couch, she looked around for something she wanted.

Jane had run into the sewing room in her flight to get away from Donald and keep her brother’s birthday Dog. And in the sewing room were needles, pins, spools of thread and many things such as were in the window of Mrs. Clark’s store.

“Well, I feel quite at home here,” thought the Woolly Dog, as he looked around and saw the needles and pins. But these were not what Jane wanted. She found what she was looking for in her mother’s sewing basket—a pair of sharp, shining scissors.

Jane picked up the scissors and sat down on the floor with the Woolly Dog in her lap. There was a serious look on the little girl’s face.

“Now I see where it is,” she whispered to herself. “Now I find out all ’bout you!”

The Woolly Dog saw the points of the sharp, shining scissors in the chubby hands of Jane coming nearer and nearer to him.

“Oh, what dreadful thing is going to happen now?” thought the Woolly Dog. “Can she be going to cut me?”

He wanted to close his glass eyes, but he dared not. He wanted to howl in terror, but he dared not. He wanted to bark and scare little Jane, but he dared not.

He dared do none of these things. He dared not pretend to come to life while the eyes of Jane were upon him. And she was looking at him closely.

Jane turned the Woolly Dog over on his back in her lap. She opened and closed the scissors with a clashing sound.

“This is the end of me!” thought the poor Woolly Dog. “Oh, if I were only back in the store with the poor toys!”

“Now I see what’s inside you,” murmured Jane.

“Snip!” went the sharp scissors, and there was a long gash cut in the Woolly Dog’s stomach, letting out some of the cotton stuffing.

“Oh! Oh, dear! Oh, dear me!” thought the toy, but he dared not say a word or utter so much as a whine.

“Snip!” went the scissors again, and a longer gash was cut in the Woolly Dog.

Jane leaned over to look at the mischief she had done. She did not seem to be satisfied, for she said:

“I dess I make hole bigger.”

“Snip!” went the scissors again.

The Woolly Dog thought he would faint! But he was a very brave Dog, and so he held his breath and stood it all without even an inner shudder.

“Now I dess I see what’s inside you,” murmured Jane.

Down among the wads of cotton that filled the inside of the Woolly Dog the little girl poked her fingers. This way and that she twisted them, and, oh, how she tickled that poor little Woolly Dog. You know how it feels to be tickled on the outside of your ribs, but how would you like to be tickled on the inside?

Well, that’s what was happening to the Woolly Dog. He was being tickled on the inside!

How he wanted to laugh, in spite of his pain, but he dared not.

“Where is it? I wonder where it is?” said Jane over and over again, as her fingers wiggled in among the wads of cotton stuffing.

Then, suddenly, the door of the sewing room opened and in came Donald. He gave one look at what Jane was doing, and cried:

“I’ve found her! Oh, Mother, I’ve found her!”

“Where is she?” asked his mother, for they had been searching all over the house for the mischievous little girl. “Where is she, Donald?”

“She’s in the sewing room. And, oh, Mother! she’s killed my Woolly Dog. She’s killed him dead! Oh! Oh!” And Donald burst into tears at the sight of his birthday toy.

CHAPTER V
A LOST DIAMOND

“Donald! Donald! What do you mean? What has Jane done?” asked Mrs. Cressey, as she followed closely after her little boy and entered the room where Jane had hidden.

“Look! Just look!” sobbed Donald, with the tears streaming down his cheeks. He was getting to be a big boy he thought, and hated to cry, but this time he just couldn’t help it. To have his new birthday Woolly Dog cut up so soon after he had received it from Uncle Teddy! Wasn’t it sad?

Uncle Teddy himself, who had followed Mrs. Cressey, came into the room. They had searched all over the house for Jane, and at last her mother had thought perhaps the little girl might have hidden under the couch. Or, rather, it was Donald who spoke of it. He said:

“Maybe she’s there. Sometimes she hides there when we’re playing hide-and-seek.”

“We’ll look,” answered his mother.

So, back to this room they had gone and there, of course, they had found Jane.

At the sight of the sharp, shining scissors and the cut dog lying in the little girl’s lap, Mrs. Cressey exclaimed:

“Oh, Jane! what are you doing?”

“I—I—now, I want to find the Woolly Dog’s bark,” explained Jane.

“His bark?” cried her mother.

“Yes. I want to see if he’s got a bow-wow inside him.”

“He hasn’t,” said Donald, chokingly. “There isn’t any bark in my Woolly Dog. He doesn’t even squeak, does he, Uncle Teddy?”

Woolly Dog Objects to Jane’s Scissors.

The Story of a Woolly Dog.

Page [46]

“No, I hardly think so. The storekeeper didn’t say he did.”

“Well, I was lookin’ for his bark,” said Jane, “but I didn’t find it.”

“Yes, and you’ve killed him—that’s what you’ve done!” cried Donald. “Jane, you’re a bad, bad girl! My Woolly Dog is spoiled dead!”

“Never mind, I’ll get you another,” said Uncle Teddy.

Mrs. Cressey picked up the Woolly Dog from her little girl’s lap. Some of the cotton stuffing was sticking out of the gash the scissors had made in his stomach. Donald’s mother looked the Dog over carefully.

“He isn’t much harmed,” she said. “I can easily mend him, Donald.”

“Oh, can you, Mother?”

“Yes, I can put the stuffing back in and sew up the cut and he will be as good as ever.”

“Are you sure?” asked Uncle Teddy. “Because if you aren’t, I’ll get Donald another dog, though this was the only one in the store.”

“I’m sure I can mend him,” said Mrs. Cressey. “Jane didn’t do much damage, after all.”

“Won’t the place show where you sew him up?” asked Donald doubtfully.

“Yes, it will show a little,” his mother answered.

“But you can pretend your Dog has been to the hospital and has had an operation,” suggested Uncle Teddy.

“Oh, so I can! That will be fun!” replied Donald, and he dried his tears. “But Jane shouldn’t have cut him; should she, Mother?”

“No, she was a naughty little girl, I’m afraid.”

“I—now—I dess was lookin’ for his bark,” said Jane, and her lips began to quiver as they always did just before she burst into tears.