By Elizabeth P. Allan


"Davie boy, I wish you would get up early to-morrow morning," said
Mrs. Forbes; "I want your help in sending out some valentines."

Davie opened his sleepy eyes wide. "Why, mother," he said, "I did not
know that _you_ were in the valentine business!"

"There hasn't been a fourteenth of February since I can remember,"
answered his mother smiling, "that I haven't sent out at least one
valentine. Do you know what Valentine Day means, Davie?"

"It means sending funny pictures to the other fellows," grinned Davie.

"First of all, it means a Love Day," said Mrs. Forbes, "and valentines
are supposed to be sweethearts' love letters. But I don't see why
sweethearts should have a corner on love, do you, Davie?"

[Illustration: _Davie helps mother deliver a new kind of valentine._]

"What sort of valentines do you send, mother?" asked the little boy.
His curiosity had waked him up and made him forget that the hands of
the clock had left his bedtime far behind.

"My valentines used to be made of little pictures cut out and pasted
on a card or a piece of note paper, when I was no older than you,"
said Davie's mother; "and my mother used to write on them in her fine,
copy-book hand, little verses like this: