Iva Payne, the hateful thing, sent a Cubist picture of an infant falling
downstairs, but Warble couldn't make it out so its pre-natal influence
didn't amount to much.
Daisy Snow, innocent child, sent a beautiful edition of _How to Tell Your
Young_, a treatise of the bird-and-bee-seed-and-pollen school, and Faith
Loveman sent her own marked copy of _Cooks that Have Helped Me_.
But Warble made a face at them all, and gave their books to the Salvation
Army and read the Diary of Maggot Somebody.
* * * * *
Another fate slather.
The baby was twins.
That was the way things came to Warble--fate in big chunks--destiny in
cloudbursts.
Two little red Petticoats all at once to hang on the ancestral tree.
But Warble was not caught napping. In her efficient way, she had provided
two bassinets, two nurseries--in fact, she had really provided three of
everything, but the third wasn't needed, and she thriftily ordered it put
aside for the present and for the future.
Dr. Petticoat was enchanted.
He saw the children first, asleep in their downy nests, tucked in by the
skilled hands of the staff of trained nurses, and as he gazed on his
offspring, his little tucked and quilted Petticoats, he named them Guelph
and Ghibelline, after two of his illustrious ancestors and ran off at once
to put up their names at various select and inaccessible clubs.
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