She'd been coming to my birthday parties for years
and years. She always came first and left last and ate the most and
got the sickest of all the girls I knew. It was appalling how that
girl could eat.
But, as I was saying, there was father and the cake, and there was
mother and "Glad" and all the little candles were twinkling, lighting
up my presents clustered around, among them being half a dozen maroon
silk socks, a box of striped neck ties, all perfect joys; spats, a
lounging gown, ever so many gloves and the snappiest little cane in
all the world. And what have I around me now? A swab on one side, a
bucket on the other, a broom draped over my shoulder, C.P.O.'s in
front of me, P.O.'s behind me and work all around me--oh, what a
helluvabirthday! I told my company commander last night that the next
day was going to be my birthday, hoping he would do the handsome thing
and let me sleep a little later in the morning, but did he? No, the
Brute, he said I should get up earlier so as to enjoy it longer. As
far as I can find out, the Camp remains totally unmoved by the fact
that I am one year older to-day--and what a hubbub they used to raise
at home. I think the very least they could do up here would be to ask
me to eat with the officers.
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