It was a plain little doll that had been purchased for sixpence at a slow down in the commercial center. It had insufficient hair and a powerless creation confront, a calico body and absurd feet that constantly turned inwards rather than outwards, and from which the sawdust once in a while overflowed. Yet in its glass eyes there was an interpretation of diversion; they were by all accounts taking a gander at you however through you, and the tightened up red lips were continually grinning at what the glass eyes saw.
“Indeed, you are a doll,” the kid said, gazing upward from his French exercise. “What’s more, what are you gazing at me for is there anything behind?” he asked, looking over has shoulder. The doll made no answer. “Furthermore, whatever are you grinning for?” he asked; “I trust you are continually grinning. I accept you’d go on the off chance that I didn’t do my activity till one year from now, or if the feline kicked the bucket, or the landmark tumbled down.” Yet at the same time the doll grinned peacefully, and the kid went ahead with his activity. Quickly he turned upward again and yawned. “I think I’ll strive for a walk,” he said, and put his book by. “I comprehend what I’ll do,” he said, abruptly; “I’ll take that doll and hang it up to the apple tree to drive off the sparrows.” And getting out, “Sis, I have taken your doll; I’m going to make a scarecrow of it,” he went off to the greenhouse.
His sister hurried after him, shouting out, “Goodness, my poor doll! gracious, my dear little doll ! What’s the deal with you to it, you shrewd kid?”
“It’s so revolting,” he said.
“No, it is not revolting,” she cried.
“Furthermore, its so imbecilic, it never does anything other than grin, it can’t even develop, it never gets any greater.”
“Poor dear doll,” Sis said, as she got it again securely into her arms, “obviously you can’t develop, yet it is not your issue, they didn’t make any tucks in you to let out.”
“Furthermore, its so barbarous. It set out for some grinning ceaselessly like anything when I couldn’t do my French.”
“It has no heart. Obviously it can’t feel.”
“Why hasn’t it got a heart?
“Since it isn’t alive. You should be sorry for it, and, extremely kind to it, poor thing.” “Admirably, what is it continually grinning for?” “On the grounds that it is so great,” addressed Sis, crying uncontrollably. “It is never awful tempered; it never gripes, and it never did anything unkind,” and, kissing it carefully, “you are constantly great and sweet,” she said, “and dependably look grinning, however you must be extremely miserable at not being alive.”