From 8-year old Hilda Firestone’s diary:

Today, I asked Grandfather what the kitten was. He just picked it up in his hands and said, “Why, a girl of course. Most cats are girls.” I asked if a beautiful fairy had whispered that in his ear, and he told me not to talk rubbish. So, at the lunch table, I said that I knew that the cat is a girl, and what shall we call it. The nicest friend of Aunt Tillie was having lunch with us. Her name is Suzanne and she is a dancer. I love her because she always smells of violets. Most people who come here smell of moth balls. She is small, and thin, and wears fluffy clothes with lots of lace and feathers. She said that she is studying a ballet that I don’t know how to spell, so now I can’t write any more until she tells me how to spell it because I did name the kitten after the ballet.