I never saw a house more complete in all its details. Nothing had been
overlooked, not even the family. It lay on its back, just outside the
front door, proud but calm, waiting to be put into possession. It was
not an extensive family. It consisted of four--papa, and mamma, and
baby, and the hired girl; just the family for a beginner.
It was a well-dressed family too--not merely with grand clothes outside,
covering a shameful condition of things beneath, such as, alas! is too
often the case in doll society, but with every article necessary and
proper to a lady or gentleman, down to items that I could not mention.
And all these garments, you must know, could be unfastened and taken off.
I have known dolls--stylish enough dolls, to look at, some of them--who
have been content to go about with their clothes gummed on to them, and,
in some cases, nailed on with tacks, which I take to be a slovenly and
unhealthy habit. But this family could be undressed in five minutes,
without the aid of either hot water or a chisel.
Not that it was advisable from an artistic point of view that any of them
should. They had not the figure that looks well in its natural
state--none of them. There was a want of fulness about them all.
Besides, without their clothes, it might have been difficult to
distinguish the baby from the papa, or the maid from the mistress, and
thus domestic complications might have arisen.
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