No longer lifeless however, but angry, noisy, reproachful. "Ah, little thief!" cried January. "Where are the stolen moments?"
"Yes," shouted March, a blustering fellow with wild hair and eyes. "Where's the third finger of my left hand? Where are my Brother February's thumb-nail and right ear-tip?"
"And my roses," wept June, a fair young woman. "See, I ought to have a whole lap full, and there are only five. Oh, naughty, naughty boy!"
"And my holly sprig?" vociferated December. "Who's to know which I am without it? Not a child in the world will hang up his stocking at the right time."
"Didn't you know," sobbed April, "that the jar only held just enough to make us complete, and no more? And here all of us but January are ugly, maimed creatures, and the New Year will be so disgusted with us."
It was too true. Every one lacked something. September had no wheat-ears. May mourned
