"She's swept it off," said Prudy, speaking for her, "but she didn't sweep it way 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 your days, 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'll snip my hands, you needn't; I'll snip 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.



"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 do every thing to 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 to help, 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.



CHAPTER XIII

THE GYPSY SUPPER

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? I think 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 dreadful ragged house!"

"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 an April 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 the boys 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 is popple wood," 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 means mackerel, you see," said Horace, 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 very slippery child."

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?" said she, "them black folks. Be they the 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 black all through?"

"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, I love him, 'cause he can't wash it off! Mayn't I put him in my prayer?"

Then Prudy had to get out of bed and kneel 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."



CHAPTER XIV

THE ANGEL-BABY

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, what have you got in your pocket?"

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

"I guess you ain'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 the good all 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't love such sour things anyhow. I was only hung-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 smile flitting across her face and then dying out again.

"O, 'cause," said Prudy, "then I can tell Susy, and she can 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 a great 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 deal wusser, 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 about dying—about Harry's dying, 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 ought to have seen how Harry used to jump when he'd hear Horace open the door; he always expected a frolic!"

"Didn't we have times!" 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 that you 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 stories that day, 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 tell you.—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 to breathe so 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 heaven now," 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, and there 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 her thoughts dreams.

"O," said she, "I dreamed about my angel! He had stars all round his head, and he flowed in the air like a bird. There was ever so many little angels with him, and some of 'em sang. They didn't sing sorry; 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 "so empty" now, "it can't be right to cry, can it, Prudy, when I know my baby is so happy in heaven?"



CHAPTER XV

GOING HOME

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 another dearly. 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 cunningest little 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 want me to 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 you wasn't my father; and aunt Madge says she'll answer it, 'cause you couldn't read my writing; but I 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 see him again. That was last summer, when I was a little girl. I don't like pigs now.

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 hate live skeeters. 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. But my teeth 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. He made 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 the tired part of him is in the garden.

My father is 'most crazy to see me. He is, truly; and when I say truly, I can't lie. He said he 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 "LITTLE-FOLKS" BOOKS

DOTTY DIMPLE AT HER GRANDMOTHER'S

"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 DIMPLE OUT WEST

"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.

DOTTY DIMPLE AT HOME

"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.

DOTTY DIMPLE AT SCHOOL

"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 being bewitched by 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.

DOTTY DIMPLE AT PLAY

"'Charming Dotty Dimple,' as she is so universally styled, has become decidedly a favorite with young and old, who are alike pleased with her funny sayings and doings. 'Dotty at Play' will be found very attractive, and the children, especially the girls, will be delighted with her adventures."—Boston Express.

DOTTY DIMPLE'S FLYAWAY

"This is the final volume of the 'Dotty Dimple' Series. It relates how little Flyaway provisioned herself with cookies and spectacles and got lost on a little hill while seeking to mount to heaven, and what a precious alarm there was until she was found, and the subsequent joy at her recovery, with lots of quaint speeches and funny incidents."—North American.

"A Little Red Riding-Hoodish story, sprightly and takingly told."—American Farmer.

LITTLE FOLKS ASTRAY

"This is a book for the little ones of the nursery or play-room. It introduces all the old favorites of the Prudy and Dotty books, with new characters and funny incidents. It is a charming book, wholesome and sweet in every respect, and cannot fail to interest children under twelve years of age."—Christian Register.

PRUDY KEEPING HOUSE

"How she kept it, why she kept it, and what a good time she had playing cook, and washerwoman, and ironer, is told as only Sophie May can tell stories. All the funny sayings and doings of the queerest and cunningest little woman ever tucked away in the covers of a book will please little folks and grown people alike."—Press.

AUNT MADGE'S STORY

"Tells of a little mite of a girl, who gets into every conceivable kind of scrape and out again with lightning rapidity through the whole pretty little book. How she nearly drowns her bosom friend, and afterwards saves her by a very remarkable display of little-girl courage. How she gets left by a train of cars, and loses her kitten and finds it again, and is presented with a baby sister 'come down from heaven,' with lots of smart and funny sayings."—Boston Traveller.

LITTLE GRANDMOTHER

"Grandmother Parlen when a little girl is the subject. Of course that was ever so long ago, when there were no lucifer matches, and steel and tinder were used to light fires; when soda and saleratus had never been heard of, but people made their pearl ash by soaking burnt crackers in water; when the dressmaker and the tailor and the shoemaker went from house to house twice a year to make the dresses and coats of the family."—Transcript.

LITTLE GRANDFATHER

"The story of Grandfather Parlen's little-boy life, of the days of knee breeches and cocked hats, full of odd incidents, queer and quaint sayings, and the customs of 'ye olden time.' These stories of Sophie May's are so charmingly written that older folks may well amuse themselves by reading them. The same warm sympathy with childhood, the earnest naturalness, the novel charm of the preceding volumes will be found in this."—Christian Messenger.

MISS THISTLEDOWN

"One of the queerest of the Prudy family. Read the chapter heads and you will see just how much fun there must be in it: 'Fly's Heart,' 'Taking a Nap,' 'Going to the Fair,' 'The Dimple Dot,' 'The Hole in the Home,' 'The Little Bachelor,' 'Fly's Bluebeard,' 'Playing Mamma,' 'Butter Spots,' 'Polly's Secret,' 'The Snow Man,' 'The Owl and the Humming-Bird,' 'Talks of Hunting Deer,' and 'The Parlen Patchwork.'"

FLAXIE FRIZZLE

"Flaxie Frizzle is the successor of Dotty Dimple, Little Prudy, Flyaway, and the other charming child creations of that inimitable writer for children, Sophie May. There never was a healthy, fun-loving child born into this world that, at one stage or another of its growth, wouldn't be entertained with Sophie May's books. For that matter, it is not safe for older folks to look into them, unless they intend to read them through. 'Flaxie Frizzle' will be found as bright and pleasant reading as the others."—Boston Journal.

FLAXIE'S DOCTOR PAPA

"Sophie May understands children. Her books are not books about them merely. She seems to know precisely how they feel, and she sets them before us, living and breathing in her pages. Flaxie Frizzle is a darling, and her sisters, brothers, and cousins are just the sort of little folks with whom careful mothers would like their boys and girls to associate. The story is a bright, breezy, wholesome narrative, and it is full of mirth and gayety, while its moral teaching is excellent."—Sunday-School Times.

FLAXIE'S LITTLE PITCHERS

"Little Flaxie will secure a warm place in the hearts of all at once. Here is her little picture: Her name was Mary Gray, but they called her Flaxie Frizzle, because she had light curly hair that frizzled; and she had a curly nose,—that is, her nose curled up at the end a wee bit, just enough to make it look cunning. Her cheeks were rosy red, 'and she was so fat that when Mr. Snow, the postmaster, saw her, he said, "How d'ye do, Mother Bunch?"'"—Boston Home Journal.

FLAXIE'S TWIN COUSINS

"Another of those sweet, natural child-stories in which the heroine does and says just such things as actual, live, flesh children do, is the one before us. And, what is still better, each incident points a moral. The illustrations are a great addition to the delight of the youthful reader. It is just such beautiful books as this which bring to our minds, in severe contrast, the youth's literature of our early days—the good little boy who died young and the bad little boy who went fishing on Sunday and died in prison, etc., to the end of the threadbare, improbable chapter."—Rural New Yorker.

FLAXIE'S KITTYLEEN

"'Kittyleen'—one of the 'Flaxie Frizzle' series—is a genuinely helpful as well as delightfully entertaining story. The nine-year-old Flaxie is worried, beloved, and disciplined by a bewitching three-year-old tormenter, whose accomplished mother allows her to prey upon the neighbors. 'Everybody felt the care of Mrs. Garland's children. There were six of them, and their mother was always painting china. She did it beautifully, with graceful vines trailing over it, and golden butterflies ready to alight on sprays of lovely flowers. Sometimes the neighbors thought it would be a fine thing if she would keep her little ones at home rather more; but if she had done that she could not have painted china.'"—Chicago Tribune.

FLAXIE GROWING UP

"No more charming stories for the little ones were ever written than those comprised in the three series which have for several years past been from time to time added to juvenile literature by Sophie May. They have received the unqualified praise of many of the most practical scholars of New England for their charming simplicity and purity of sentiment. The delightful story shows the gradual improvement of dear little Flaxie's character under the various disciplines of child-life and the sweet influence of a good and happy home. The illustrations are charming pictures."—Home Journal.

PENN SHIRLEY'S BOOKS

PENN SHIRLEY'S STORIES

FOR THE LITTLE ONES

"Miss Penn Shirley is a very graceful interpreter of child-life. She thoroughly understands how to reach out to the tender chord of the little one's feelings, and to interest her in the noble life of her young companions. Her stories are full of bright lessons, but they do not take on the character of moralizing sermons. Her keen observation and ready sympathy teach her how to deal with the little ones in helping them to understand the lessons of life. Her stories are simple and unaffected."—Boston Herald.

THE LITTLE MISS WEEZY SERIES

Three volumes Illustrated Boxed, each 75 cents

LITTLE MISS WEEZY

"One of the freshest and most delightful, because the most natural, of the stories of the year for children is 'Little Miss Weezy,' by Penn Shirley. It relates the oddities, the mischief, the adventures, and the misadventures of a tiny two-year-old maiden, full of life and spirit, and capable of the most unexpected freaks and pranks. The book is full of humor, and is written with a delicate sympathy with the feelings of children which will make it pleasing to children and parents alike. Really good child literature is not over-plenty, despite the multitude of books that come daily from the press; and it is pleasing to welcome a new author whose first volume, like this one of Penn Shirley, adds promise of future good work to actual present merit."—Boston Courier.

LITTLE MISS WEEZY'S BROTHER

"This is a good story for young children, bringing in the same characters as 'Little Miss Weezy' of last year, and continuing the history of a very natural and wide-awake family of children. The doings and the various 'scrapes' of Kirke, the brother, form a prominent feature of the book, and are such as we may see any day in the school or home life of a well-cared-for and good-intentioned little boy. There are several quite pleasing full-page illustrations."—The Dial.

"We should like to see the person who thinks it 'easy enough to write for children' attempt a book like the 'Miss Weezy' stories. Excepting Sophie May's childish classics, we don't know of anything published as bright as the sayings and doings of the little Louise and her friends. Their pranks and capers are no more like Dotty Dimple's than those of one bright child are like another's, but they are just as 'cute' as those of the little folks that play in your yard or around your neighbor's doorsteps."—Journal of Education.

LITTLE MISS WEEZY'S SISTER

"It is one of the best of the series, and will please every child who reads it. It is brought out just at the holiday time, and is brimful of good things. Every character in it is true to nature, and the doings of a bright lot of children, in which Miss Mary Rowe figures conspicuously, will entertain grown folks as well as little ones."

"It is a thoroughly clever and delightful story of child-life, gracefully told, and charming in its blending of humor and pathos. The children in the book are real children, and the pretty plot through which they move is fully in harmony with the characters. The young ones will find it a storehouse of pleasant things pleasantly related, and a book that will appeal at once to their sentiments and sympathies."—Boston Gazette.

"A book that will hold the place of honor on the nursery bookshelf until it falls to pieces from much handling is 'Little Miss Weezy's Sister,' a simple, yet absorbing story of children who are interesting because they are so real. It is doing scant justice to say for the author, Penn Shirley, that the annals of child-life have seldom been traced with more loving care."—Boston Times.

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Sophie May's Complete Works

LITTLE FOLKS' BOOKS Illustrated. Per Volume, 75 cents

LITTLE PRUDY'S CHILDREN Wee Lucy Wee Lucy's Secret Jimmy Boy Jimmy, Lucy, and All Kyzie Dunlee Lucy in Fairyland

LITTLE PRUDY STORIES Little Prudy Little Prudy's Sister Susy Little Prudy's Captain Horace Little Prudy's Cousin Grace Little Prudy's Story Book Little Prudy's Dotty Dimple

DOTTY DIMPLE SERIES Dotty Dimple at Her Grandmother's Dotty Dimple Out West Dotty Dimple at School Dotty Dimple at Home Dotty Dimple at Play Dotty Dimple's Flyaway

LITTLE PRUDY FLYAWAY SERIES Little Folks Astray Prudy Keeping House Aunt Madge's Story Little Grandmother Little Grandfather Miss Thistledown

FLAXIE FRIZZLE STORIES Flaxie Frizzle Doctor Papa Little Pitchers Twin Cousins Flaxie's Kittyleen Flaxie Growing Up

THE QUINNEBASSET SERIES Six volumes. Illustrated. Per volume, $1.25 The Doctor's Daughter Quinnebasset Girls In Old Quinnebasset Our Helen The Asbury Twins Janet; A Poor Heiress

HER FRIEND'S LOVER. Cloth, $1.00 PAULINE WYMAN. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25 JOY BELLS. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25

ANY VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY Illustrated Catalogue sent by mail postpaid

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston

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