The carpet
was of soft grey, with clusters of green bay and holly leaves.
The furniture was of white wood, on which an artist had painted
snow scenes and Christmas trees and groups of merry children
ringing bells and singing carols.
Donald had made a pretty, polished shelf and screwed it on to the
outside of the footboard, and the boys always kept this full of
blooming plants, which they changed from time to time; the
head-board, too, had a bracket on either side, where there were
pots of maidenhair ferns.
Love-birds and canaries hung in their golden houses in the
windows, and they, poor caged things, could hop as far from their
wooden perches as Carol could venture from her little white bed.
On one side of the room was a bookcase filled with hundreds--yes,
I mean it--with hundreds and hundreds of books; books with
gay-colored pictures, books without; books with black and white
outline-sketches, books with none at all; books with verses,
books with stories, books that made children laugh, and some that
made them cry; books with words of one syllable for tiny boys and
girls, and books with words of fearful length to puzzle wise
ones.
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