Betty Bonnet October
Betty Bonnet is an ongoing serial story, released on the Sheep Among Wolves blog once a month. It follows the adventures of the Bonnet family, first created by Sheila Young as a paper doll series released in the Ladies’ Home Journal beginning 1915. To go to the first episode, click here.
I.
“What would you like for Christmas,” said Betty Bonnet, standing solemnly at the arm of my chair, and clutching a big sheet of paper and a stubby pencil, all ready for action.
I looked out the window, where the foliage was just beginning to be tinged with red and yellow.
“Betty, dear, it’s the first of October,” I protested weakly.
Betty nodded earnestly.
“In eighty-three days it will be the day before Christmas Eve,” she informed me. “Bob said so, this morning.”
“Ah, well, then,” said I, seeing a loophole. “You must ask Bob, not I, about Christmas presents, then.”
“I did ask him,” said Betty, still with the pencil at the ready.
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said it was eighty-three days until the day before Christmas Eve, and he’d think of something sometime, if I’d only hand over his tennis racket.”
II.
“Ah,” I said, feeling that Bob had really made the only possible reply under the circumstances. “Well, as your brother has pointed out, there are eighty-three days left to think about it. Eighty-four, if we include Christmas Eve itself, and without going so far as to ask you to hand over my tennis racket—”
“I decided to give Bob a doll,” announced Betty, consulting her list.
“A—what?”
“A doll,” said Betty, squinting at her handwriting. “Or it might say, ‘a ball.’ It’s hard to tell. I’d sooner get him a doll. They’re much nicer—and they make a bigger present.”
“The thing about Christmas presents,” I remarked to the ceiling, “is that one really wants to put down something the other person would like. It isn’t so much a matter of giving oneself eighty-three days to think about it, as it’s a matter of hitting on the very thing somebody was hoping to have given to them.”
“Yes,” said Betty, matter-of-factly, “that’s why I’m asking people.”
“Ah,” said I, again. It was unsatisfactorily vague.
“Only when people don’t know, I have to decide for them. ‘Bob—a doll,’” she read again, frowning hard at the pencil smudge that made the exact identity of the ‘d’ rather ambiguous.
I ventured on one more remonstrance. “I’m not certain if Bob really likes—”
“Oh, he’d like this doll,” said Betty cheerfully. “I know just the sort it ought to be.”
III.
I sank back in the easy chair and surrendered. What were the chances that Betty’s list stayed intact for eight-three days, after all?
“What shall I get you?” Betty reminded, persistently.
“Oh, yes. Me,” I murmured forgetfully.
“Don’t you want anything in the whole world?” persisted Betty.
“Many things. Financial independence. Inspiration for my next article. A clear conscience. A stamp for the letter that’s got to be posted this afternoon. But nothing you can wrap up with paper and a ribbon, just at present, Betty love.”
Betty looked gravely at her paper for a minute. Then her face cleared.
“I know,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll put you down for a doll.”
IV.
“A doll?” I repeated blankly.
“I like dolls,” said Betty, with a comfortable wiggle.
“Yes, I know. The thing with Christmas presents, Betty, is that you try to put down what—”
“But you said you didn’t want anything I could wrap up!”
“When I said that,” I explained hastily, “I meant, just now. At the moment. Without giving due consideration to the question. It is a serious question, you know. One wants to give it some reflection—some quite fireside evenings, some still silent mornings—”
Betty looked at me, clearly unconvinced.
“Besides,” I added, changing my tack, “when I said there was nothing I wanted, that didn’t mean there weren’t some things I wanted less than others.”
Betty’s eyes grew large and disappointed.
“I thought you liked dolls,” she remarked, quite as sorrowfully as if I had admitted a tendency to hate sunshine, or ice cream, or happy babies.
“I do like dolls. I was very fond of them when I was a girl of your age,” I amended, trying to save my reputation and my Christmas present in the same breath. “It’s only that as you get older, you find it—er—a trifle harder to—to—”
“But you can’t think of anything else,” persisted a puzzled Betty.
“What did you give your mother, last year, for Christmas,” I inquired hastily.
Betty reflected.
“I think I gave her a doll,” she said at last.
V.
I shut my eyes in defeat.
“It was just a little doll,” Betty explained, warming to her subject. “A little doll, to sit on her desk, with a frilly skirt you use for an ink blotter, and the darlingest little china head. I got her at the charity bazaar. She was the last one they had, so I can’t get you one exactly like. But I might get you a different kind. There are so many different sorts of dolls, you know.”
“I know,” I repeated, with the voice of exhaustion.
“I might put you down for a doll, now, and we could change it, later, if you thought of anything else,” suggested Betty. “It’s only pencil.”
I looked around desperately, but there seemed to be no way out.
“Alright,” I conceded, feeling we must put an end to the conversation, at whatever cost. “Put me down for a doll. But see if you can’t make it less than eight inches high.” I indicated the desired proportions with my fingers. “I shall have to pack the thing, when I go home for the New Year.”
Betty nodded seriously.
“Doll—very small,” she read aloud as she wrote.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling I must say something.
“Yes,” Betty nodded.
V.
The door opened, and Mr. Bonnet came in.
“Papa!” cried Betty, running over, the pencil-streaked list flapping out behind her. “Papa, darling, do you know it’s only eight-three days till Christmas? To the day before Christmas Eve, I mean. What would you like for a Christmas present, Papa?”
I glance out the window, where the first touches of red and yellow are just beginning to tinge the foliage, with a smile. From the other side of the room, I can hear Betty’s earnest little voice. “Suppose I put you down for a doll, Papa?”
Oh, well.
I turn back to my interrupted reading.
It doesn’t really matter.
As Betty herself is so eager to remind us, we still have eighty-three days.
(To be continued.)
Don’t miss out on last month’s episode of Betty Bonnet:
It’s September and Betty Bonnet is all ready to start back to school—at least until an unforeseen accident threatens to extend her vacation indefinitely. Does Betty have what it takes to transform herself from the student into the teacher?
I’m always excited when I open one of your blog notifications and find more Betty! <3
Aw! That’s so sweet to know!