But Nancy, who grew accustomed to celebrating my
birthdays when I was a little girl, never gets over the habit,
and I don't try to cure her, because, after all, it's nice to
have some one make a fuss over you. She brought me up my
breakfast before I got up out of bed--a concession to my laziness
that Nancy would scorn to make on any other day of the year. She
had cooked everything I like best, and had decorated the tray
with roses from the garden and ferns from the woods behind the
house. I enjoyed every bit of that breakfast, and then I got up
and dressed, putting on my second best muslin gown. I would have
put on my really best if I had not had the fear of Nancy before
my eyes; but I knew she would never condone THAT, even on a
birthday. I watered my flowers and fed my cats, and then I
locked myself up and wrote a poem on June. I had given up
writing birthday odes after I was thirty.
In the afternoon I went to the Sewing Circle. When I was ready
for it I looked in my glass and wondered if I could really be
forty. I was quite sure I didn't look it. My hair was brown and
wavy, my cheeks were pink, and the lines could hardly be seen at
all, though possibly that was because of the dim light. I always
have my mirror hung in the darkest corner of my room. Nancy
cannot imagine why. I know the lines are there, of course; but
when they don't show very plain I forget that they are there.
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