CHAPTER XII

Prudy awoke one morning full of mischief. At the second table she split her johnny-cake, and spread it open, saying it was a singing-book, and began to sing out of it,—

"Little drops of water,Littlegrainsof sand."

Grandma heard her from the next room, and came in very much surprised.

"What shall I do with such a little girl as this?" said she, shaking her finger at Prudy.

"I think," answered the child, "youought to call me to you and say, 'You been a-singin' to the table, Prudy.' Then I'll say 'Yes'm;' and you'll say, 'Prudy, go right out in the kitchen, and don't let me see you till you come back pleasant.'"

Grandma put her head out of the window a moment, for she didn't want any body to see her smile.

"This is one of Prudy's days," thought she. "I'm really afraid I shall have to punish her before it's over."

Very soon after breakfast the doorbell rang, and a little boy left a note directed to Miss Grace Clifford. It said,—

"Miss Grace Clifford, the Misses Parlin, and Mr. Horace Clifford, are respectfully invited to a gypsy supper in the Pines."

The children hardly knew what it meant.

"Whatisjispies?" asked Prudy, alittle frightened. "Be they up in the Pines?"

"It means a picnic, that's all," said aunt Madge, "and a very nice time you will have."

"A picnic!" screamed all the voices in chorus. It was almost too good to believe. Grace clapped her hands and laughed. Susy ran about the room like a crazy thing. Prudy hopped up and down, and Horace tried to stand on his head.

"Now scamper, every one of you," said aunt Madge, "for I must go right to cooking.—Let's see, you shall have some cunning little sandwiches, some hard-boiled eggs; and what else can you think of, Louise?"

"Stop a minute," said aunt Louise, drawing on a long face, "I hope Susy and Prudy——"

"Tarts and plum-cake!" cried Susy and Grace.

"Oranges, dates, and figs!" said Horace.

"And them little cookies you cut out of a thimble, you know," added Prudy, anxious to put in a word.

"Hear me speak," said aunt Louise. "I hope Susy and Prudy don't think they are going to this picnic, for the truth is, they haven't been invited."

"Not invited?" gasped Susy.

"The note says, 'the Misses Parlin,'" said aunt Louise, gravely. "That might mean your grandmother, but it doesn't! I take it to meanthe young ladies, Madge (or Mig) and Louise, your beautiful aunties, who are often called 'the Misses Parlin.' Of course itcan'tmean two little slips of girls in short dresses!"

Susy burst into tears, and tried to talk at the same time, but nobody could understand her.

"O, O!" moaned Prudy, burying her face in the roller-towel, "if I can't go I shall just lay down my head and cry!"

"It's not true, children, not one word; she's only joking," said aunt Madge, laughing and shaking the egg-beater at her sister. "I'm really ashamed of your aunt Louise for trying to tease you. Whatdoyou suppose any body wants of old grown-up folks at your nice little party? There, there, don't laughquiteso loud. Run away, and stay away, if you want me ever to do any thing."

In a few moments the children were playing out of doors in high spirits, and Prudy had told the workmen, in her pretty, lisping way, "that every one of we childrenwere invited to ajispysupper; had a ticket come a-purpose, so of course we shouldhaveto go!"

The children were too much excited to do their morning work properly. Grandma could not tell by the looks of the piazza whether Susy had swept it or not, and had to go and ask.

"She's swept it off," said Prudy, speaking for her, "but she didn't sweep itway off!"

"I should judge not," said grandma; "and here is Prudy, with her bib on yet, and Grace hasn't made her bed. Do you think such children ought to go to a party?"

"O, grandma," cried Prudy, "you know we had a ticket come a-purpose!"

"I'm ashamed," said Grace, promptly. "Susy, you and I are too big to act so.Let's go and do up our work right nice, and then see if we can't help grandma."

And off went the two little girls, with beaming faces, trying to make themselves useful.

"What shall I do?" thought Prudy, for every body was at work,—even Horace, who was turning the grindstone for the men.

"I'll dust the parlors, that's what I'll do. It does take aunt Madge so long."

So, with the big feather duster, Prudy made a great stir among the books and ornaments, and at last knocked over a little pitcher and broke its nose.

"You little meddlesome thing," cried aunt Louise, as soon as she knew it, "this is one of yourdays, I should think!"

"I didn't mean to," cried the child; "I was trying to help."

"Don't say you didn't mean to; you hadn't any business to touch the duster. I shall have to snip your fingers, I do believe."

"Don't," begged the child, "I'llsnip my hands,youneedn't;I'llsnip my hands and get the naughty out."

"They ought to be snipped from now till next Christmas," said aunt Louise, laughing in spite of herself to see the little one set to work with thumb and finger, trying to do her own punishing. "There, there, go off, and be a good girl."

Prudy's bright spirits rose again at these words, and she thought she would keep on trying to make herself useful. It was aunt Madge she wanted to help—good aunt Madge, who was so busy cooking for the gypsy supper.

Prudy dusting. Page 135 .Prudy dusting.Page 135 .

"I'll feed her bird," thought the child; "he sings as if he was hungry."

Now aunt Madge had fed little Daffy before sunrise, and he was as yellow and happy as a canary can be. But silly little Prudy trotted off after a piece of sponge cake, climbed into a chair, opened the cage door, and swung the cake before his eyes.

Of course Daffy flew out, and one might suppose that was the last of him; but it so happened that the windows were not up.

Prudy ran, in great fright, to tell aunt Madge, and when she opened the door, the cat got in; and such a time as there was, you may imagine. Kitty rushed for the canary, aunt Louise rushed for the kitty, and aunt Madge for the bird. At last, Daffy was caught, and safe in his little home, with only the loss of a few tiny feathers.

"I'd give that child one sound whipping," said aunt Louise.

"Let Madge attend to her," replied grandma; "she will do right, for she knows how to keep her temper."

Louise said nothing, but she felt the rebuke; and as she left the room, there was a bright color in her cheeks.

"Prudy," said aunt Madge, gently, "you didn't mean to open the cage door, did you?"

Prudy remembered that she had been scolded before for saying "I didn't mean to."

"Yes'm, I did," replied she, in a choked voice, "I meant to do it a-purpose."

"I'm really astonished," cried aunt Madge, raising both hands. "Then it's surely my duty to punish you."

"You may," sobbed Prudy. "You may shut me up, and not let me have no dinner, 'cause I ain't hungry. I've been eatin' cake!"

"I think," said aunt Madge, "it would be a better punishment to keep you home from the party."

"O," cried Prudy, eagerly, "wouldn't you rather snip my hands? You can snip 'em with a piece o' whalebone, you know, and switch me all over with a switch, and doevery thingto me, if you'll only let me go to the party!"

"I'm afraid you'll forget, unless you're kept at home, Prudy."

"O, no, no; I'll promise truly I won't try to help again, never, never in my world."

"Were you trying to help when you let out the bird?"

"Yes'm, I was. He was singin' for somethin' to eat."

"O, I begin to understand," said aunt Madge, laughing heartily. "So you didn't mean to be a naughty girl after all. I am very glad of that, Prudy, for I couldn't tell what to make of you. But you must never touch the cage again. Little girls that want tohelp, must ask somebody to tell them what to do. There, now, kiss me, dear, and I'll forgive you, and we won't say any more about your being naughty, if you'll only remember next time."

Prudy laughed, and twinkled off the tears. She was what aunt Madge called a "bird-child," and was never unhappy but a little while at a time.

After a great, great while, it was afternoon, and the children went up to the Pines, carrying a small market basket half full of nice things.

I don't know which felt most at home in those woods, the birds or the children. It wasn't at all like having a party in a parlor, where there are chairs and rugs in the way; and where you can't run and jump without being afraid of hurting something. No, there wasn't any danger of scratching the varnish off the trees, nor any danger of soiling the soft carpet of the earth.

And if there hadn't been a party, it was enough to make any body happy only to breathe the sweet air, and look away down at the white village, and away off at the blue hills.

Dr. Gray's daughter Ruth, a girl of fourteen, was to have the care of Prudy; and at first she followed the child about like her shadow.

"You dear little pet," said she, "don't walk so fast. There, now, my sweet dovey, let me take your hand."

Prudy looked down at her copper-toed shoes with something like a pout, and slowly gave her hand to the young girl.

"Now, you're a little pink of a dear," said Ruth. "Let's see," added she, feeling anxious to say something, for she thought Prudy would want to be amused,"do you love your aunt Madge any?Ithink she's very good and nice."

"Yes'm," said Prudy, "I've kissed her so much that I love her a good deal."

"Well, I declare," laughed Ruth, "that's a new way of learning to love any body! I guess people call you a funny little monkey, don't they?"

"No'm, they don't," replied Prudy, drawing away a little, "they think I'm as cunning as I can be."

"O, my! I know a little girl that thinks pretty well of herself. Ah, here comes Dedy Roberts; does my little love know Dedy?"

"Yes'm, I went to see her once; she lives in a dreadfulraggedhouse!"

"Well, you two little lammies can sit right down here and pick flowers, and if you find a strawberry I'll give you a cent."

"As if we was babies," thought the little girls, for they were wise enough to know that strawberries were gone long ago.

"I don't like her," said Prudy to Dedy, when Ruth had turned away; "she calls me names all the whole time. I guess she don't know my name is Prudy."

"I wouldn't let her," said Dedy. "What did she call you?"

"O, monkeys, and lammies, and pinkies, and things. Don't you s'pose she's 'most anApril fool?"

After watching Prudy to the child's vexation for about two hours, Ruth forgot all about her, and it so happened that the little thing strayed off with Horace and his friend Gilbert, whom he called "Grasshopper," to a little clearing in the wood.

It is a sad fact that "Grasshopper" had a bunch of matches in his pocket, and theboys meant to build a fire. Horace gathered the dry sticks and crossed them, so all Grasshopper had to do was to strike a match, and the fire was soon crackling briskly.

"How it pops!" said Prudy, "just like corn."

"I reckon this ispopplewood," said Horace, "and they call it so because it pops in the fire."

Prudy did not doubt it. She never doubted any thing Horace said. She stood looking on, with dumb surprise, as he took out of the inside pocket of his raglan three small fishes.

"Now," said he, "if we can cook these for our supper, won't we go a-flyin'?"

"Be they minnies?" asked Prudy. "O, I know; it's mack fishes!"

"She meansmackerel, you see," saidHorace, with a wise look at Grasshopper. "No, Prudy, these are chubbs, nice chubbs, too; I caught 'em myself."

How to cook a fish, Horace had no idea, but he was not a boy to give up at trifles.

"If I put 'em into the fire they'll burn up," said he; "but if I hold 'em over the fire they'll cook;—now won't they?"

"Your hand will cook, too, I guess," said lazy Grasshopper, sitting down and looking on.

Horace said no more, but went quietly to work and whittled some long splinters, on which he stuck the fish and set them to roasting. True, they got badly scorched and dreadfully smoked, but that was not all that happened. A spark flying out caught Prudy's gingham dress, and set it in flames in a second.

Whether the boys would have known what to do, I can't say; but just then Sam Walker, a good-natured colored man, came up and put out the flames before Prudy fairly knew there were any. Then he brought water from a spring and drowned the bonfire, and gave the boys "a piece of his mind."

All the while poor Prudy was running off into the thickest part of the wood, crying bitterly. Sam ran after her, and caught her up, as if she had been a stray lamb; and though she struggled hard, he carried her to the picnic ground, where the large girls were just spreading the table for supper.

"You'd better look out for these here young ones," said Sam. "This one would have been roasted sure, if I hadn't a-happened along in the nick of time."

Ruth Gray dropped the paper of candy she was untying, and turned very pale. She had been too busy playing games to remember that she had the care of any body.

"O, you little ducky darling," cried she, seizing Prudy in her arms, "don't you cry, and you shall have a pocket full of candy. You didn't get burnt a mite, did you, honey?"

"No'm, I ain't cryin'," sobbed Prudy. "I ain't crying any thing about that;" and every word seemed to be shaken out, as if there was a little earthquake at her heart—"there—is—black folks!O, he is just as—black!"

"Is that all," said Grace, stroking Prudy's hair. "Didn't she ever see any negroes—any nice black negro men before, Susy?"

"I thought she had; why, we have 'em in the streets at Portland, lots and lots of 'em."

After much soothing, and a good deal of candy, Prudy was comforted, and the supper went off famously. The children were all polite and well-behaved, "even the boys," as Ruth said; and though they all had keen appetites, nobody was greedy.

By and by, when it would not do to stay any longer, they all started for home, happy and tired.

Ruth held Prudy's little hand in a firm grasp, and wished she had held it so all the afternoon; "for," as she said, to herself, "she's a veryslipperychild."

This had been a trying day for Prudy, and when aunt Madge put her to bed, her sweet blue eyes wouldn't stay shut.

"Where do they grow, auntie?" saidshe, "them black folks. Betheythe jispies?"

"O, they grow any where," replied aunt Madge, laughing; "just like any body. They are not gypsies, but negroes."

"I should think they'd wash their faces."

"O, they do, but our Heavenly Father made them black."

"Did he?" cried Prudy, raising her head from the pillow. "And did he know how they was goin' to look when he made 'em? That man that catched me up, why, how he must feel!"

"He was very kind," said aunt Madge, trembling as she thought of the child's danger. "O Prudy, did you thank him?"

"No, I didn't," replied Prudy. "I didn't know as he could hear any thing.O, mayn't I go up to the jispy Pines to-morrow and thank him?"

"We'll see; but now it's time you went to sleep."

"Well, I will," said Prudy, "I'll go in a minute; but, auntie, he's good, ain't he? He ain't blackallthrough?"

"He's quite a good man," answered aunt Madge, trying not to smile, "and has had a great deal of trouble. I can't stop to tell you, and you wouldn't understand; but I dare say he has cried ever so much, Prudy, and felt worse than you can think, all because he is black; and some people don't like black men."

"I should think they'd be ashamed," cried the child. "Why,Ilove him, 'cause he can't wash it off! Mayn't I put him in my prayer?"

Then Prudy had to get out of bed andkneel down and say her prayer over again. It followed the Lord's Prayer, and was in her own words:—

"O God, please bless every body. Bless all the big children, and the little children, and the little mites o' babies. And bless all the men and ladies that live in the whole o' the houses."

And now she added,—

"And won't you please to bless that black man that catched me up, and bless all the black folks, forever, amen."

The beautiful summer was passing away very fast. Only a few days more till autumn. A little longer, and the cousins must separate; so, for the time that was left, they clung all the more closely together.

I have called it a beautiful summer; so it was, but there is one sorrowful thing I have not said much about. There was one trouble which always made the children feel sad when they stopped to think of it.

While they were playing in the hay-field, or taking supper "up in the trees," now and then they would hear the tired cry of the darling sick baby.

Then Grace would clasp her hands together in her quick way, and say,—

"O dear, dear, I wish the doctor would get Harry well."

"Poh!" said Horace, "the doctors they have East ain't no 'count, are they, though, Gracie?"

"Of course they don't know so much as Dr. De Bruler," replied Grace, very decidedly.

"I'll tell you how they make doctors," spoke up little Prudy; "they take a man and put him in a bear's buffalo coat, and that makes a doctor."

"And a gig," said Horace, "and some sharp things, and lots of little bottles."

"What children!" said Grace, looking down upon them with a lofty smile. "Why, Prudy, whathaveyou got in your pocket?"

"O, I don't know," said Prudy, throwing her hands behind her. "Goodnesswon't hurt me, will it, Susy?"

"I guessyouain't good enough to hurt."

"Well, grandma says not to eat green apples," said the child, "but she'd be willing I could chew 'em and get thegoodall out—don't you s'pose she would?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Susy; "you must ask."

"Well, I never teased for any. Horace gave 'em to me, and I shan't swallow 'em."

"O, what a little snipe," cried Grace, laughing, "your pocket is stuffed so full it's going to burst open, and you'll be sick again, now you see!"

"Sick?" repeated Prudy, looking frightened, for she did not forget her severe illness; "then I'll throw 'em away. I don'tlove such sour things anyhow. I was onlyhung-buggin'."

And Prudy went down the wooden stairs which led from the trees, and walked slowly towards the house, dropping the green apples one by one into the grass.

At the kitchen door she met her aunt Madge, who was in tears.

"O auntie," said she, "I'm going to wash my hands spandy clean, and then are you willing there is any thing I can have to eat?"

"Cookies, if you like, my dear."

"O auntie," cried Prudy, eager with a new thought, "won't you tell me where them raisins is—the ones you didn't put in the pudding? Tell me, O, do, do! If you will, I won't touch 'em, true as the world."

"Then why do you want to know where they are?" said aunt Madge, a faint smileflitting across her face and then dying out again.

"O, 'cause," said Prudy, "then I can tell Susy, andshecan get 'em!"

"You can each of you have a handful," said aunt Madge, reaching down the box. "You may have some, for I know you wouldn't take them without leave, and Susy wouldn't either, you funny child!"

"Now," said she, putting the raisins in Prudy's apron, "I want you to go out of doors and keep very still."

"Why do you cry so, my dearest auntie in the world?" said Prudy, climbing into a chair, and throwing her arms around her auntie's neck, while the raisins dropped to the floor; "is Mr. 'Gustus Allen dead?"

"No," said aunt Madge, hugging little Prudy as if she was good for the heartache, "the baby is agreat deal worse, darling!Tell the children I will send them some dinner up in the trees, and don't let Horace come into the house. You know he means to keep still, but his boots make so much noise."

Prudy gathered up the raisins, and went out quietly, her happy little face looking very sober. But the "bird-child" could not be sad long at a time, and she had hardly climbed the steps into the trees, and given away the clusters of raisins, before the sick baby was almost forgotten.

"There," said Horace, suddenly, "I must go right into the house and see Harry. I haven't seen him to-day."

"O, no, no!" cried Prudy, holding him back, and speaking very fast, "he's a great dealwusser, and auntie said your boots was so big she'd send the dinner out here; and then she cried like every thing."

"O," said Grace, "I'm so afraid the baby won't get well! Aunt Madge didn't say any thing aboutdying—about Harry'sdying, did she, Prudy?"

"No," replied Prudy, stopping a moment to think; "she said he was wusser—a great deal wusser, darling. And then she talked about Horace's boots, and that's all."

"The darling little baby! He used to love me before he got so sick; and all the way coming East I held him ever so much, you know, Horace."

"Well, he liked me, too," said Horace, looking very sober, "and I've played with him the most, and let him spoil lots of my things."

"So you have," said Grace. "I heard ma say the other day you'd always been good to little brother. O Susy, you oughtto have seen how Harry used to jump when he'd hear Horace open the door; he always expected a frolic!"

"Didn't we havetimes!" cried Horace, dropping his eyes, which were full of tears.

"O Susy," said Grace, "do you suppose any one that's sick all summer ever gets well?"

"I don't know," sighed Susy; "mother says if God is willing they'll get well, and if he isn't they'll die. God knows what is best."

"Yes," chimed in little Prudy, "God knows a great deal more'n I do!"

And so the children chatted and played quietly all day long, sometimes breaking off in the midst of a game to talk about the baby. It seemed like a very strange day. The sky looked so calm and peaceful thatyou could almost fancy it was keeping still to listen to something a great way off. The quiet trees might have been dreaming of heaven, Susy thought. Horace begged her now to tell that fairy story about "The Bravest of Lion's Castle;" but Susy said it made her feel wicked to think of fairy storiesthatday, though she couldn't tell why.

When the children went into the house at supper-time it was very still. Nobody was to be seen but aunt Madge, who gave them some bowls of bread and milk, and said the family had taken tea.

A kind of awe crept over Grace as she looked at the tearful face of her auntie, and she dared not ask about the baby.

After they had finished their supper, aunt Madge said, "You may all follow me into the nursery; I have something to tellyou.—Our dear little pale baby, who has been sick day and night all this long summer, will never feel sick or cry any more. God has taken him to heaven to be a little angel."

All but Prudy knew that she spoke of death. Grace flung herself on the floor and wept aloud. Horace rushed up stairs into the back chamber, without saying a word to any body; and Susy buried her face in the sofa-pillows, whispering, "O God, don't let it be so; it isn't true, is it?"

But Prudy only opened her blue eyes in wonder. When she saw the pure little form of the baby lying on the bed, in a soft crimson dress, she smiled and said,—

"O, he looks as if he was asleep, and he is asleep!"

"But see, he doesn't breathe," whispered Susy.

"No," said Prudy, "he don't breathe because he don't want to. He was sick, and it made him too tired tobreatheso much."

Why every body should weep was more than Prudy could tell; but she thought it must be right to do as the rest did, and by bedtime she was sobbing as if her heart would break. She afterwards said to Susy,—

"I tried as hard as I could to cry, and when I got to crying I cried as tight as I could spring!"

But when aunt Madge wanted to put Prudy to bed she was unwilling to go. "O, no," said she, "I want to wait and see the baby go up!"

"See what?" said aunt Madge.

"See God take the baby up to heaven," sobbed the child.

"But he is in heavennow," replied aunt Madge.

"O, no, he hasn't gone a single step. I saw him on the bed. They haven't put his wings on yet!"

Aunt Madge was puzzled, and hardly knew what to say, for it is not easy to make such very little children know the difference between the body, which goes back to dust, and the spirit, which goes to God who gave it.

She talked a long while, but I doubt if Prudy understood one word, for when the casket which held the form of little Harry was buried in the garden, she cried because the earth was heaped over it.

"What makes 'em do it?" she asked, "he can't get to heaven through all that dirt!"

But by and by, when days passed, andthere was no longer a baby in the house, Prudy began to think of him as one of the angels. And one morning she told a beautiful dream which she thought she had had, though she sometimes called herthoughtsdreams.

"O," said she, "I dreamed about my angel! He had stars all round his head, and heflowedin the air like a bird. There was ever so many little angels with him, and some of 'em sang. They didn't singsorry; they was singing, 'The Little Boy that died.' And, aunt 'Ria, I guess you wouldn't cry if you could see how happy they were!"

"No, no," sobbed poor aunt 'Ria, holding Prudy close in her arms, which she said felt "soempty" now, "it can't be right to cry, can it, Prudy, when Iknowmy baby is so happy in heaven?"

It was now autumn. The trees couldn't keep green any longer, for their time had come; so they just made the best of it, like sad faces laughing through tears, and glowed and flushed in a perfect blaze of glory, making believe they were having splendid times all by themselves, and didn't care for what was coming.

The Parlin children had stayed a great deal longer than their parents at first meant they should stay, and now they must really go back to Portland.

The little cousins were sorry to part, for you know they had learned to love one anotherdearly. Grace and Susy clung together till the last moment.

"O Susy," sobbed Grace, "don't you forget these good times! Remember to write, no matter how it looks. I wish I hadn't got to go 'way off out West. I never did have such times in any place as we've had here at grandma's."

"Nor I either," said Susy, looking sorrowfully at the barn, the seat in the trees, and the clover patch. "Remember, you're coming back in just two years. Won't it be splendid?—O dear, but two years is 'most forever!" added Susy, suddenly breaking down.

"Good by, Prudy," said Horace, climbing into the stage-coach, quite out of breath. He had run all the way to the post office just for the sake of seeing her again.

"Good by, Prudy. You're the cunningestlittle spud! If you lived out West I'd just go a-flyin'."

Nobody knew whether Horace cried or not, for nobody saw him till dinner time, but then he looked very sober indeed. He and Grasshopper had been building a fort, he said; and after he had told so much, he seemed not to care about talking. He felt captain of a little company, and such a brave soldier that he would not even say he felt sorry Prudy was gone.

Grace talked a great deal about Susy, and asked her mamma if she might not invite her to go out West some time.

Mrs. Clifford said she should be very glad, indeed, to have a visit from both the children, and who knew but it might happen so? for Mr. Parlin, Susy's father, often took journeys out West on business.

This idea struck Grace very pleasantly,and she had a strong hope of the visit in a minute. In two minutes she had a firm belief in it; and the last we see of Grace and Horace in this book, they are sitting on the piazza, eagerly talking about the next winter, when they shall both go to the cars to meet uncle Edward and the children.

"They'll be there my birthday—what'll you bet?" said Horace.

"I shall wear my tippet when we go to the depot, and have a new hood," said Grace. "I don't know what my dress will be, though."

"I'll make a bow-arrow, and a gun, and a steamboat for Prudy."

"And I'll give Susy my large doll, and make a blue dress for it, with flowing sleeves. She shall put all her things into my cabinet."

"What'll we have to eat? Pecans, and 'simmons, and raisins, and figs."

"O, we shall have plenty to eat, Horace, we always do. We'll give 'em canned peaches with cream. Susy likes cream as well as a cat."

"I'd like to see Prudy eat a 'simmon—a green one, I mean," cried Horace, laughing aloud. "Seems like I can see her mouth puckering up now."

Susy and Prudy, all this while, were riding home in the cars, under the care of the conductor.

"O," sighed Susy, "I wish we were going backwards, just the other way. Grandma is going to let Grace boil some candy to-night, and put oilnuts in it."

"I guess they'll wantmeto help 'em pull it," said Prudy.

"There, now, we've got to Brunswick,"murmured Susy. "I don't like to get so far away from the folks at grandma's. Don't it seem real lonesome?"

"No, indeed," replied Prudy. "I'm glad we're goin' home to see mother and the rest of 'em. What do you s'pose the baby'll say?"

But their speech was cut short by some large pieces of sponge cake, which the smiling conductor brought to them wrapped in a newspaper.

Susy and Prudy reached home safely, and there is nothing more to be said about them at present.

I think I will copy the letter which Prudy wrote to her dear friend, Mr. Allen, or which she got aunt Madge to write the next time she went to Portland.

Christmas Day.

Dear Mr. 'Gustus Allen:

When you went off to the wars aunt Madge cried some, for I saw her wiping her eyes. You asked me if I loved you for the candy, but I didn't; I loved you for the nuts and oranges.

I think you was real good to write me a letter. I had just as lief kiss you as not if youwasn'tmy father; and aunt Madge says she'll answer it, 'cause you couldn't read my writing;butI hain't got any pig! He was a pinky winky little thing, but grandpa kept a keepin' him eatin', and he got so big once when I was gone that they had to kill him.

But he didn't go to heaven, and I'm glad, for I don't ever want to seehimagain. That was last summer, when I was alittlegirl. I don't like pigsnow.

Of course I'm going on five, for if I wasn't most five my grandpa Read wouldn't be dead most two years.

I've got my presents, but they ain't took off the tree yet. Mother gave me a tea-set. O, I wish you could see it, 'cause you wouldn't break a single thing. And I had a doll, and lots of candy and books, and a new dress, and a scarf, and some shiny shoes.

I'm glad you wrote me that darling letter. I can't think of any thing to think of. The skeeters bit me when I was to grandma's. I hateliveskeeters. They might be flies, and I wouldn't care then. They used to get into my skin just as easy, and sting me all up.

Won't you write me another letter? Please to.

Susy fastened her tooth to the door-latch once. It got so loose it shook in her mouth, and it hurt her so I had to cry. Butmyteeth are drove in real hard. I mean it hurt her when 'twas pulled, that's what I mean.

I saw a cow the other day in the road, that wasn't hitched. Susy said, "Go long goff, sir," but he didn't, and then a man shoo-brauded him, and he went.

We had a dear little toady in the garden, and when I talked to him he winked. He had a nest in the flower-bed last summer.

I like to stay at grandma's, so I can jump off of something. Mother won't let us hunt for any eggs to Portland—'cause we haven't any hens.

Horace was a captain to his men. Hemade me a sled. I had a new dress on the Christmas-tree, and a sugar basket.

I've got a bad cold, but Susy hasn't. My head is all snuffed up.

When are you goin' to come home?

I haven't seen Grace and Horace for so long! They went home after the baby died. God has got the baby up in heaven, but thetired partof him is in the garden.

My father is 'most crazy to see me. He is, truly; and when I saytruly, Ican'tlie. Hesaidhe wanted to see me so he was 'most crazy, and he's comin' to-night.

I s'pose he'll bring me something, for I've been good. When I act cross, it's 'cause I don't feel well.

Aunt Madge says to me I've wrote enough, and I'm tired. She's wrote the letter, but I made it up.

I wish you a Merry Christmas! She asked me if I forgot to wish it, but I didn't.

Good by.

From

Prudy Parlin.

"Sophie May's excellent pen has perhaps never written anything more pleasing to children, especially little girls, than 'Dotty Dimple.' If the little reader follows Dotty through these dozen chapters—from her visit to her grandmother to the swing under the trees—he or she will say: 'It has been a treat to read about Dotty Dimple, she's so cunning.'"—Herald of Gospel Liberty.

"Dotty's trip was jolly. In the cars, where she saw so many people that she thought there'd be nobody left in any of the houses, she offers to hold somebody's baby, and when it begins to cry she stuffs pop-corn into its mouth, nearly choking it to death. Afterwards, in pulling a man's hair, she is horrified at seeing his wig come off, and gasps out,'Oh, dear, dear, dear, I didn't know your hair was so tender!' Altogether, she is the cunningest chick that ever lived."—Oxford Press.

"This little book is as full of spice as any of its predecessors, and well sustains the author's reputation as the very cleverest of all writers of this species of children's books. Were there any doubt on this point, the matter might be easily tested by inquiry in half the households in the city, where the book is being revelled over."—Boston Home Journal.

"Miss Dotty is a peremptory little body, with a great deal of human nature in her, who wins our hearts by her comic speeches and funny ways. She complains of beingbewitchedby people, and the wind 'blows her out,' and she thinks if her comrade dies in the snow-storm she will be 'dreadfully 'shamed of it,' and has rather a lively time with all her trials in going to school."—New York Citizen.

Back to Index Next