Milly would be seven years old on the 15th of July, and for about a week before the 15th, Milly's little head could think of nothing else.

Olly too was very much excited about it, for though Milly of course was the queen of the day, and all the presents were for her, not for him, still it was good times for everybody on Milly's birthday; besides which, he had his own little secret with mother about his present to Milly, a secret which made him very happy, but which he was on the point of telling at least a hundred times a day.
"Father," said Milly, about four days before the birthday, when they were all wandering about after tea one evening in the high garden which was now a paradise of ripe red strawberries and fruit of every kind, "does everybody have birthdays?
Do policemen have birthdays ?" "I expect so, Milly," said Mr.Norton, laughing, "but they haven't any time to remember them." "But, father, what's the good of having birthdays if you don't keep them, and have presents and all that?
And do cats and dogs have birthdays?
I should like to find out Spot's birthday.

We'd give her cream instead of milk, you know, and I'd tie a blue ribbon round her neck, and one round her tail like the queen's sheep in mother's story." "I don't suppose Spot would thank you at all," said Mr.Norton.

"The cream would make her ill, and the ribbon would fidget her dreadfully till she pulled it off." "Oh dear!" sighed Milly.

"Well, I suppose Spot had better not have any birthday then.