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What Katy Did by Susan Coolidge

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With Frontispiece in Color by Ralph Pallen Coleman


Six of us once, my darlings, played together
Beneath green boughs, which faded long ago,
Made merry in the golden summer weather,
Pelted each other with new-fallen snow.

Did the sun always shine? I can't remember
A single cloud that dimmed the happy blue,--
A single lightning-bolt or peal of thunder,
To daunt our bright, unfearing lives: can you?

We quarrelled often, but made peace as quickly,
Shed many tears, but laughed the while they fell,
Had our small woes, our childish bumps and bruises,
But Mother always "kissed and made them well."

Is it long since?--it seems a moment only:
Yet here we are in bonnets and tail-coats,
Grave men of business, members of committees,
Our play-time ended: even Baby votes!

And star-eyed children, in whose innocent faces
Kindles the gladness which was once our own,
Crowd round our knees, with sweet and coaxing voices,
Asking for stories of that old-time home.

"Were _you_ once little too?" they say, astonished;
"Did you too play? How funny! tell us how."
Almost we start, forgetful for a moment;
Almost we answer, "We are little _now!_"

Dear friend and lover, whom to-day we christen,
Forgive such brief bewilderment,--thy true
And kindly hand we hold; we own thee fairest.
But ah! our yesterday was precious too.

So, darlings, take this little childish story,
In which some gleams of the old sunshine play,
And, as with careless hands you turn the pages,
Look back and smile, as here I smile to-day.


















I was sitting in the meadows one day, not long ago, at a place where
there was a small brook. It was a hot day. The sky was very blue, and
white clouds, like great swans, went floating over it to and fro. Just
opposite me was a clump of green rushes, with dark velvety spikes, and
among them one single tall, red cardinal flower, which was bending over
the brook as if to see its own beautiful face in the water. But the
cardinal did not seem to be vain.

The picture was so pretty that I sat a long time enjoying it. Suddenly,
close to me, two small voices began to talk--or to sing, for I couldn't
tell exactly which it was. One voice was shrill; the other, which was a
little deeper, sounded very positive and cross. They were evidently
disputing about something, for they said the same words over and over
again. These were the words--"Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She
didn't." "She did." "She didn't." "Did." "Didn't." I think they must
have repeated them at least a hundred times.

I got up from my seat to see if I could find the speakers; and sure
enough, there on one of the cat-tail bulrushes, I spied two tiny
pale-green creatures. Their eyes seemed to be weak, for they both wore
black goggles. They had six legs apiece,--two short ones, two not so
short, and two very long. These last legs had joints like the springs to
buggy-tops; and as I watched, they began walking up the rush, and then I
saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. In fact, if I
hadn't been too big, I _think_ I should have heard them creak as they
went along. They didn't say anything so long as I was there, but the
moment my back was turned they began to quarrel again, and in the same
old words--"Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She didn't."

As I walked home I fell to thinking about another Katy,--a Katy I once
knew, who planned to do a great many wonderful things, and in the end
did none of them, but something quite different,--something she didn't
like at all at first, but which, on the whole, was a great deal better
than any of the doings she had dreamed about. And as I thought, this
little story grew in my head, and I resolved to write it down for you. I
have done it; and, in memory of my two little friends on the bulrush, I
give it their name. Here it is--the story of What Katy Did.

Katy's name was Katy Carr. She lived in the town of Burnet, which wasn't
a very big town, but was growing as fast as it knew how. The house she
lived in stood on the edge of the town. It was a large square house,
white, with green blinds, and had a porch in front, over which roses and
clematis made a thick bower. Four tall locust trees shaded the gravel
path which led to the front gate. On one side of the house was an
orchard; on the other side were wood piles and barns, and an ice-house.
Behind was a kitchen garden sloping to the south; and behind that a
pasture with a brook in it, and butternut trees, and four cows--two red
ones, a yellow one with sharp horns tipped with tin, and a dear little
white one named Daisy.

There were six of the Carr children--four girls and two boys. Katy, the
oldest, was twelve years old; little Phil, the youngest, was four, and
the rest fitted in between.

Dr. Carr, their Papa, was a dear, kind, busy man, who was away from home
all day, and sometimes all night, too, taking care of sick people. The
children hadn't any Mamma. She had died when Phil was a baby, four years
before my story began. Katy could remember her pretty well; to the rest
she was but a sad, sweet name, spoken on Sunday, and at prayer-times, or
when Papa was especially gentle and solemn.

In place of this Mamma, whom they recollected so dimly, there was Aunt
Izzie, Papa's sister, who came to take care of them when Mamma went away
on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the little ones
kept hoping she might return. Aunt Izzie was a small woman, sharp-faced
and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular about
everything. She meant to be kind to the children, but they puzzled her
much, because they were not a bit like herself when she was a child.
Aunt Izzie had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to sit as
Curly Locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her head
patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl; whereas
Katy tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a button
about being called "good," while Clover and Elsie shied off like
restless ponies when any one tried to pat their heads. It was very
perplexing to Aunt Izzie, and she found it hard to quite forgive the
children for being so "unaccountable," and so little like the good boys
and girls in Sunday-school memoirs, who were the young people she liked
best, and understood most about.

Then Dr. Carr was another person who worried her. He wished to have the
children hardy and bold, and encouraged climbing and rough plays, in
spite of the bumps and ragged clothes which resulted. In fact, there was
just one half-hour of the day when Aunt Izzie was really satisfied about
her charges, and that was the half-hour before breakfast, when she had
made a law that they were all to sit in their little chairs and learn
the Bible verse for the day. At this time she looked at them with
pleased eyes, they were all so spick and span, with such nicely-brushed
jackets and such neatly-combed hair. But the moment the bell rang her
comfort was over. From that time on, they were what she called "not fit
to be seen." The neighbors pitied her very much. They used to count the
sixty stiff white pantalette legs hung out to dry every Monday morning,
and say to each other what a sight of washing those children made, and
what a chore it must be for poor Miss Carr to keep them so nice. But
poor Miss Carr didn't think them at all nice; that was the worst of it.

"Clover, go up stairs and wash your hands! Dorry, pick your hat off the
floor and hang it on the nail! Not that nail--the third nail from the
corner!" These were the kind of things Aunt Izzie was saying all day
long. The children minded her pretty well, but they didn't exactly love
her, I fear. They called her "Aunt Izzie" always, never "Aunty." Boys
and girls will know what _that_ meant.

I want to show you the little Carrs, and I don't know that I could ever
have a better chance than one day when five out of the six were perched
on top of the ice-house, like chickens on a roost. This ice-house was
one of their favorite places. It was only a low roof set over a hole in
the ground, and, as it stood in the middle of the side-yard, it always
seemed to the children that the shortest road to every place was up one
of its slopes and down the other. They also liked to mount to the
ridge-pole, and then, still keeping the sitting position, to let go, and
scrape slowly down over the warm shingles to the ground. It was bad for
their shoes and trousers, of course, but what of that? Shoes and
trousers, and clothes generally, were Aunt Izzie's affair; theirs was to
slide and enjoy themselves.

Clover, next in age to Katy, sat in the middle. She was a fair, sweet
dumpling of a girl, with thick pig-tails of light brown hair, and
short-sighted blue eyes, which seemed to hold tears, just ready to fall
from under the blue. Really, Clover was the jolliest little thing in the
world; but these eyes, and her soft cooing voice, always made people
feel like petting her and taking her part. Once, when she was very
small, she ran away with Katy's doll, and when Katy pursued, and tried
to take it from her, Clover held fast and would not let go. Dr. Carr,
who wasn't attending particularly, heard nothing but the pathetic tone
of Clover's voice, as she said: "Me won't! Me want dolly!" and, without
stopping to inquire, he called out sharply: "For shame, Katy! give your
sister _her_ doll at once!" which Katy, much surprised, did; while
Clover purred in triumph, like a satisfied kitten. Clover was sunny and
sweet-tempered, a little indolent, and very modest about herself,
though, in fact, she was particularly clever in all sorts of games, and
extremely droll and funny in a quiet way. Everybody loved her, and she
loved everybody, especially Katy, whom she looked up to as one of the
wisest people in the world.

Pretty little Phil sat next on the roof to Clover, and she held him
tight with her arm. Then came Elsie, a thin, brown child of eight, with
beautiful dark eyes, and crisp, short curls covering the whole of her
small head. Poor little Elsie was the "odd one" among the Carrs. She
didn't seem to belong exactly to either the older or the younger
children. The great desire and ambition of her heart was to be allowed
to go about with Katy and Clover and Cecy Hall, and to know their
secrets, and be permitted to put notes into the little post-offices they
were forever establishing in all sorts of hidden places. But they didn't
want Elsie, and used to tell her to "run away and play with the
children," which hurt her feelings very much. When she wouldn't run
away, I am sorry to say they ran away from her, which, as their legs
were longest, it was easy to do. Poor Elsie, left behind, would cry
bitter tears, and, as she was too proud to play much with Dorry and
John, her principal comfort was tracking the older ones about and
discovering their mysteries, especially the post-offices, which were her
greatest grievance. Her eyes were bright and quick as a bird's. She
would peep and peer, and follow and watch, till at last, in some odd,
unlikely place, the crotch of a tree, the middle of the asparagus bed,
or, perhaps, on the very top step of the scuttle ladder, she spied the
little paper box, with its load of notes, all ending with: "Be sure and
not let Elsie know." Then she would seize the box, and, marching up to
wherever the others were, she would throw it down, saying, defiantly:
"There's your old post-office!" but feeling all the time just like
crying. Poor little Elsie! In almost every big family, there is one of
these unmated, left-out children. Katy, who had the finest plans in the
world for being "heroic," and of use, never saw, as she drifted on her
heedless way, that here, in this lonely little sister, was the very
chance she wanted for being a comfort to somebody who needed comfort
very much. She never saw it, and Elsie's heavy heart went uncheered.

Dorry and Joanna sat on the two ends of the ridge-pole. Dorry was six
years old; a pale, pudgy boy, with rather a solemn face, and smears of
molasses on the sleeve of his jacket. Joanna, whom the children called
"John," and "Johnnie," was a square, splendid child, a year younger than
Dorry; she had big brave eyes, and a wide rosy mouth, which always
looked ready to laugh. These two were great friends, though Dorry seemed
like a girl who had got into boy's clothes by mistake, and Johnnie like
a boy who, in a fit of fun, had borrowed his sister's frock. And now, as
they all sat there chattering and giggling, the window above opened, a
glad shriek was heard, and Katy's head appeared. In her hand she held a
heap of stockings, which she waved triumphantly.

"Hurray!" she cried, "all done, and Aunt Izzie says we may go. Are you
tired out waiting? I couldn't help it, the holes were so big, and took
so long. Hurry up, Clover, and get the things! Cecy and I will be down
in a minute."

The children jumped up gladly, and slid down the roof. Clover fetched a
couple of baskets from the wood-shed. Elsie ran for her kitten. Dorry
and John loaded themselves with two great fagots of green boughs. Just
as they were ready, the side-door banged, and Katy and Cecy Hall came
into the yard.

I must tell you about Cecy. She was a great friend of the children's,
and lived in a house next door. The yards of the houses were only
separated by a green hedge, with no gate, so that Cecy spent two-thirds
of her time at Dr. Carr's, and was exactly like one of the family. She
was a neat, dapper, pink-and-white-girl, modest and prim in manner, with
light shiny hair, which always kept smooth, and slim hands, which never
looked dirty. How different from my poor Katy! Katy's hair was forever
in a snarl; her gowns were always catching on nails and tearing
"themselves"; and, in spite of her age and size, she was as heedless and
innocent as a child of six. Katy was the _longest_ girl that was ever
seen. What she did to make herself grow so, nobody could tell; but there
she was--up above Papa's ear, and half a head taller than poor Aunt
Izzie. Whenever she stopped to think about her height she became very
awkward, and felt as if she were all legs and elbows, and angles and
joints. Happily, her head was so full of other things, of plans and
schemes, and fancies of all sorts, that she didn't often take time to
remember how tall she was. She was a dear, loving child, for all her
careless habits, and made bushels of good resolutions every week of her
life, only unluckily she never kept any of them. She had fits of
responsibility about the other children, and longed to set them a good
example, but when the chance came, she generally forgot to do so. Katy's
days flew like the wind; for when she wasn't studying lessons, or sewing
and darning with Aunt Izzie, which she hated extremely, there were
always so many delightful schemes rioting in her brains, that all she
wished for was ten pairs of hands to carry them out. These same active
brains got her into perpetual scrapes. She was fond of building castles
in the air, and dreaming of the time when something she had done would
make her famous, so that everybody would hear of her, and want to know
her. I don't think she had made up her mind what this wonderful thing
was to be; but while thinking about it she often forgot to learn a
lesson, or to lace her boots, and then she had a bad mark, or a scolding
from Aunt Izzie. At such times she consoled herself with planning how,
by and by, she would be beautiful and beloved, and amiable as an angel.
A great deal was to happen to Katy before that time came. Her eyes,
which were black, were to turn blue; her nose was to lengthen and
straighten, and her mouth, quite too large at present to suit the part
of a heroine, was to be made over into a sort of rosy button. Meantime,
and until these charming changes should take place, Katy forgot her
features as much as she could, though still, I think, the person on
earth whom she most envied was that lady on the outside of the
Tricopherous bottles with the wonderful hair which sweeps the ground.



The place to which the children were going was a sort of marshy thicket
at the bottom of a field near the house. It wasn't a big thicket, but it
looked big, because the trees and bushes grew so closely that you could
not see just where it ended. In winter the ground was damp and boggy, so
that nobody went there, excepting cows, who don't mind getting their
feet wet; but in summer the water dried away, and then it was all fresh
and green, and full of delightful things--wild roses, and sassafras, and
birds' nests. Narrow, winding paths ran here and there, made by the
cattle as they wandered to and fro. This place the children called
"Paradise," and to them it seemed as wide and endless and full of
adventure as any forest of fairy land.

The way to Paradise was through some wooden bars. Katy and Cecy climbed
these with a hop, skip and jump, while the smaller ones scrambled
underneath. Once past the bars they were fairly in the field, and, with
one consent, they all began to run till they reached the entrance of the
wood. Then they halted, with a queer look of hesitation on their faces.
It was always an exciting occasion to go to Paradise for the first time
after the long winter. Who knew what the fairies might not have done
since any of them had been there to see?

"Which path shall we go in by?" asked Clover, at last.

"Suppose we vote," said Katy. "I say by the Pilgrim's Path and the Hill
of Difficulty."

"So do I!" chimed in Clover, who always agreed with Katy.

"The Path of Peace is nice," suggested Cecy.

"No, no! We want to go by Sassafras Path!" cried John and Dorry.

However, Katy, as usual, had her way. It was agreed that they should
first try Pilgrim's Path, and afterward make a thorough exploration of
the whole of their little kingdom, and see all that had happened since
last they were there. So in they marched, Katy and Cecy heading the
procession, and Dorry, with his great trailing bunch of boughs, bringing
up the rear.

"Oh, there is the dear Rosary, all safe!" cried the children, as they
reached the top of the Hill of Difficulty, and came upon a tall stump,
out of the middle of which waved a wild rose-bush, budded over with
fresh green eaves. This "Rosary" was a fascinating thing to their minds.
They were always inventing stories about it, and were in constant terror
lest some hungry cow should take a fancy to the rose-bush and eat it up.

"Yes," said Katy, stroking a leaf with her finger, "it was in great
danger one night last winter, but it escaped."

"Oh, how? Tell us about it!" cried the others, for Katy's stories were
famous in the family.

"It was Christmas Eve," continued Katy, in a mysterious tone. "The fairy
of the Rosary was quite sick. She had taken a dreadful cold in her head,
and the poplar-tree fairy, just over there, told her that sassafras tea
is good for colds. So she made a large acorn-cup full, and then cuddled
herself in where the wood looks so black and soft, and fell asleep. In
the middle of the night, when she was snoring soundly, there was a noise
in the forest, and a dreadful black bull with fiery eyes galloped up. He
saw our poor Rosy Posy, and, opening his big mouth, he was just going to
bite her in two; but at that minute a little fat man, with a wand in his
hand, popped out from behind the stump. It was Santa Claus, of course.
He gave the bull such a rap with his wand that he moo-ed dreadfully, and
then put up his fore-paw, to see if his nose was on or not. He found it
was, but it hurt him so that he 'moo-ed' again, and galloped off as fast
as he could into the woods. Then Santa Claus waked up the fairy, and
told her that if she didn't take better care of Rosy Posy he should put
some other fairy into her place, and set her to keep guard over a
prickly, scratchy, blackberry-bush."

"Is there really any fairy?" asked Dorry, who had listened to this
narrative with open mouth.

"Of course," answered Katy. Then bending down toward Dorry, she added in
a voice intended to be of wonderful sweetness: "I am a fairy, Dorry!"

"Pshaw!" was Dorry's reply; "you're a giraffe--Pa said so!"

The Path of Peace got its name because of its darkness and coolness.
High bushes almost met over it, and trees kept it shady, even in the
middle of the day. A sort of white flower grew there, which the children
called Pollypods, because they didn't know the real name. They staid a
long while picking bunches of these flowers, and then John and Dorry had
to grub up an armful of sassafras roots; so that before they had fairly
gone through Toadstool Avenue, Rabbit Hollow, and the rest, the sun was
just over their heads, and it was noon.

"I'm getting hungry," said Dorry.

"Oh, no, Dorry, you mustn't be hungry till the bower is ready!" cried
the little girls, alarmed, for Dorry was apt to be disconsolate if he
was kept waiting for his meals. So they made haste to build the bower.
It did not take long, being composed of boughs hung over skipping-ropes,
which were tied to the very poplar-tree where the fairy lived who had
recommended sassafras tea to the Fairy of the Rose.

When it was done they all cuddled in underneath. It was a very small
bower--just big enough to hold them, and the baskets, and the kitten. I
don't think there would have been room for anybody else, not even
another kitten. Katy, who sat in the middle, untied and lifted the lid
of the largest basket, while all the rest peeped eagerly to see what
was inside.

First came a great many ginger cakes. These were carefully laid on the
grass to keep till wanted: buttered biscuit came next--three apiece,
with slices of cold lamb laid in between; and last of all were a dozen
hard-boiled eggs, and a layer of thick bread and butter sandwiched with
corn-beef. Aunt Izzie had put up lunches for Paradise before, you see,
and knew pretty well what to expect in the way of appetite.

Oh, how good everything tasted in that bower, with the fresh wind
rustling the poplar leaves, sunshine and sweet wood-smells about them,
and birds singing overhead! No grown-up dinner party ever had half so
much fun. Each mouthful was a pleasure; and when the last crumb had
vanished, Katy produced the second basket, and there, oh, delightful
surprise! were seven little pies--molasses pies, baked in saucers--each
with a brown top and crisp candified edge, which tasted like toffy and
lemon-peel, and all sorts of good things mixed up together.

There was a general shout. Even demure Cecy was pleased, and Dorry and
John kicked their heels on the ground in a tumult of joy. Seven pairs of
hands were held out at once toward the basket; seven sets of teeth went
to work without a moment's delay. In an incredibly short time every
vestige of the pie had disappeared, and a blissful stickiness pervaded
the party.

"What shall we do now?" asked Clover, while little Phil tipped the
baskets upside down, as if to make sure there was nothing left that
could possibly be eaten.

"I don't know," replied Katy, dreamily. She had left her seat, and was
half-sitting, half-lying on the low, crooked bough of a butternut tree,
which hung almost over the children's heads.

"Let's play we're grown up," said Cecy, "and tell what we mean to do."

"Well," said Clover, "you begin. What do you mean to do?"

"I mean to have a black silk dress, and pink roses in my bonnet, and a
white muslin long-shawl," said Cecy; "and I mean to look _exactly_ like
Minerva Clark! I shall be very good, too; as good as Mrs. Bedell, only a
great deal prettier. All the young gentlemen will want me to go and
ride, but I shan't notice them at all, because you know I shall always
be teaching in Sunday-school, and visiting the poor. And some day, when
I am bending over an old woman and feeding her with currant jelly, a
poet will come along and see me, and he'll go home and write a poem
about me," concluded Cecy, triumphantly.

"Pooh!" said Clover. "I don't think that would be nice at all. _I'm_
going to be a beautiful lady--the most beautiful lady in the world! And
I'm going to live in a yellow castle, with yellow pillars to the
portico, and a square thing on top, like Mr. Sawyer's. My children are
going to have a play-house up there. There's going to be a spy-glass in
the window, to look out of. I shall wear gold dresses and silver dresses
every day, and diamond rings, and have white satin aprons to tie on when
I'm dusting, or doing anything dirty. In the middle of my back-yard
there will be a pond-full of Lubin's Extracts, and whenever I want any I
shall go just out and dip a bottle in. And I shan't teach in Sunday
schools, like Cecy, because I don't want to; but every Sunday I'll go
and stand by the gate, and when her scholars go by on their way home,
I'll put Lubin's Extracts on their handkerchiefs."

"I mean to have just the same," cried Elsie, whose imagination was fired
by this gorgeous vision, "only my pond will be the biggest. I shall be a
great deal beautifuller, too," she added.

"You can't," said Katy from overhead. "Clover is going to be the most
beautiful lady in the world."

"But I'll be more beautiful than the most beautiful," persisted poor
little Elsie; "and I'll be big, too, and know everybody's secrets. And
everybody'll be kind, then, and never run away and hide; and there won't
be any post offices, or anything disagreeable."

"What'll you be, Johnnie?" asked Clover, anxious to change the subject,
for Elsie's voice was growing plaintive.

But Johnnie had no clear ideas as to her future. She laughed a great
deal, and squeezed Dorry's arm very tight, but that was all. Dorry was
more explicit.

"I mean to have turkey every day," he declared, "and batter-puddings;
not boiled ones, you know, but little baked ones, with brown shiny
tops, and a great deal of pudding sauce to eat on them. And I shall be
so big then that nobody will say, 'Three helps is quite enough for a
little boy.'"

"Oh, Dorry, you pig!" cried Katy, while the others screamed with
laughter. Dorry was much affronted.

"I shall just go and tell Aunt Izzie what you called me," he said,
getting up in a great pet.

But Clover, who was a born peacemaker, caught hold of his arm, and her
coaxings and entreaties consoled him so much that he finally said he
would stay; especially as the others were quite grave now, and promised
that they wouldn't laugh any more.

"And now, Katy, it's your turn," said Cecy; "tell us what you're going
to be when you grow up."

"I'm not sure about what I'll be," replied Katy, from overhead;
"beautiful, of course, and good if I can, only not so good as you, Cecy,
because it would be nice to go and ride with the young gentlemen
_sometimes_. And I'd like to have a large house and a splendiferous
garden, and then you could all come and live with me, and we would play
in the garden, and Dorry should have turkey five times a day if he
liked. And we'd have a machine to darn the stockings, and another
machine to put the bureau drawers in order, and we'd never sew or knit
garters, or do anything we didn't want to. That's what I'd like to _be_.
But now I'll tell you what I mean to _do_"

"Isn't it the same thing?" asked Cecy.

"Oh, no!" replied Katy, "quite different; for you see I mean to _do_
something grand. I don't know what, yet; but when I'm grown up I shall
find out." (Poor Katy always said "when I'm grown up," forgetting how
very much she had grown already.) "Perhaps," she went on, "it will be
rowing out in boats, and saving peoples' lives, like that girl in the
book. Or perhaps I shall go and nurse in the hospital, like Miss
Nightingale. Or else I'll head a crusade and ride on a white horse, with
armor and a helmet on my head, and carry a sacred flag. Or if I don't do
that, I'll paint pictures, or sing, or scalp--sculp,--what is it? you
know--make figures in marble. Anyhow it shall be _something_. And when
Aunt Izzie sees it, and reads about me in the newspapers she will say,
'The dear child! I always knew she would turn out an ornament to the
family,' People very often say, afterward, that they 'always knew,'"
concluded Katy sagaciously.

"Oh, Katy! how beautiful it will be!" said Clover, clasping her hands.
Clover believed in Katy as she did in the Bible.

"I don't believe the newspapers would be so silly as to print things
about _you_, Katy Carr," put in Elsie, vindictively.

"Yes they will!" said Clover; and gave Elsie a push.

By and by John and Dorry trotted away on mysterious errands of
their own.

"Wasn't Dorry funny with his turkey?" remarked Cecy; and they all
laughed again.

"If you won't tell," said Katy, "I'll let you see Dorry's journal. He
kept it once for almost two weeks, and then gave it up. I found the
book, this morning, in the nursery closet."

All of them promised, and Katy produced it from her pocket. It
began thus:

"March 12.--Have resolved to keep a jurnal.

March 13.--Had rost befe for diner, and cabage, and potato and appel
sawse, and rice puding. I do not like rice puding when it is like ours.
Charley Slack's kind is rele good. Mush and sirup for tea.

March 19.--Forgit what did. John and me saved our pie to take to schule.

March 21.--Forgit what did. Gridel cakes for brekfast. Debby didn't
fry enuff.

March 24.--This is Sunday. Corn befe for dinnir. Studdied my Bibel
leson. Aunt Issy said I was gredy. Have resollved not to think so much
about things to ete. Wish I was a beter boy. Nothing pertikeler for tea.

March 25.--Forgit what did.

March 27.--Forgit what did.

March 29.--Played.

March 31.--Forgit what did.

April 1.--Have dissided not to kepe a jurnal enny more."

Here ended the extracts; and it seemed as if only a minute had passed
since they stopped laughing over them, before the long shadows began to
fall, and Mary came to say that all of them must come in to get ready
for tea. It was dreadful to have to pick up the empty baskets and go
home, feeling that the long, delightful Saturday was over, and that
there wouldn't be another for a week. But it was comforting to remember
that Paradise was always there; and that at any moment when Kate and
Aunt Izzie were willing, they had only to climb a pair of bars--very
easy ones, and without any fear of an angel with flaming sword to stop
the way--enter in, and take possession of their Eden.



Mrs. Knight's school, to which Katy and Clover and Cecy went, stood
quite at the other end of the town from Dr. Carr's. It was a low,
one-story building and had a yard behind it, in which the girls played
at recess. Unfortunately, next door to it was Miss Miller's school,
equally large and popular, and with a yard behind it also. Only a high
board fence separated the two playgrounds.

Mrs. Knight was a stout, gentle woman, who moved slowly, and had a face
which made you think of an amiable and well-disposed cow. Miss Miller,
on the contrary, had black eyes, with black corkscrew curls waving about
them, and was generally brisk and snappy. A constant feud raged between
the two schools as to the respective merits of the teachers and the
instruction. The Knight girls for some unknown reason, considered
themselves genteel and the Miller girls vulgar, and took no pains to
conceal this opinion; while the Miller girls, on the other hand,
retaliated by being as aggravating as they knew how. They spent their
recesses and intermissions mostly in making faces through the knot-holes
in the fence, and over the top of it when they could get there, which
wasn't an easy thing to do, as the fence was pretty high. The Knight
girls could make faces too, for all their gentility. Their yard had one
great advantage over the other: it possessed a wood-shed, with a
climbable roof, which commanded Miss Miller's premises, and upon this
the girls used to sit in rows, turning up their noses at the next yard,
and irritating the foe by jeering remarks. "Knights" and "Millerites,"
the two schools called each other; and the feud raged so high, that
sometimes it was hardly safe for a Knight to meet a Millerite in the
street; all of which, as may be imagined, was exceedingly improving both
to the manners and morals of the young ladies concerned.

One morning, not long after the day in Paradise, Katy was late. She
could not find her things. Her algebra, as she expressed it, had "gone
and lost itself," her slate was missing, and the string was off her
sun-bonnet. She ran about, searching for these articles and banging
doors, till Aunt Izzie was out of patience.

"As for your algebra," she said, "if it is that very dirty book with
only one cover, and scribbled all over the leaves, you will find it
under the kitchen-table. Philly was playing before breakfast that it was
a pig: no wonder, I'm sure, for it looks good for nothing else. How you
do manage to spoil your school-books in this manner, Katy, I cannot
imagine. It is less than a month since your father got you a new
algebra, and look at it now--not fit to be carried about. I do wish you
would realize what books cost!

"About your slate," she went on, "I know nothing; but here is the
bonnet-string;" taking it out of her pocket.

"Oh, thank you!" said Katy, hastily sticking it on with a pin.

"Katy Carr!" almost screamed Miss Izzie, "what are you about? Pinning on
your bonnet-string! Mercy on me, what shiftless thing will you do next?
Now stand still, and don't fidget. You sha'n't stir till I have sewed it
on properly."

It wasn't easy to "stand still and not fidget," with Aunt Izzie
fussing away and lecturing, and now and then, in a moment of
forgetfulness, sticking her needle into one's chin. Katy bore it as
well as she could, only shifting perpetually from one foot to the
other, and now and then uttering a little snort, like an impatient
horse. The minute she was released she flew into the kitchen, seized
the algebra, and rushed like a whirlwind to the gate, where good
little Clover stood patiently waiting, though all ready herself, and
terribly afraid she should be late.

"We shall have to run," gasped Katy, quite out of breath. "Aunt Izzie
kept me. She has been so horrid!"

They did run as fast as they could, but time ran faster, and before they
were half-way to school the town clock struck nine, and all hope was
over. This vexed Katy very much; for, though often late, she was always
eager to be early.

"There," she said, stopping short, "I shall just tell Aunt Izzie that it
was her fault. It is _too_ bad." And she marched into school in a very
cross mood.

A day begun in this manner is pretty sure to end badly, as most of us
know. All the morning through, things seemed to go wrong. Katy missed
twice in her grammar lesson, and lost her place in the class. Her hand
shook so when she copied her composition, that the writing, not good at
best, turned out almost illegible, so that Mrs. Knight said it must all
be done over again. This made Katy crosser than ever; and almost before
she thought, she had whispered to Clover, "How hateful!" And then, when
just before recess all who had "communicated" were requested to stand
up, her conscience gave such a twinge that she was forced to get up with
the rest, and see a black mark put against her name on the list. The
tears came into her eyes from vexation; and, for fear the other girls
would notice them, she made a bolt for the yard as soon as the bell
rang, and mounted up all alone to the wood-house roof, where she sat
with her back to the school, fighting with her eyes, and trying to get
her face in order before the rest should come.

Miss Miller's clock was about four minutes slower than Mrs. Knight's, so
the next playground was empty. It was a warm, breezy day, and as Katy
sat here, suddenly a gust of wind came, and seizing her sun-bonnet,
which was only half tied on, whirled it across the roof. She clutched
after it as it flew, but too late. Once, twice, thrice, it flapped, then
it disappeared over the edge, and Katy, flying after, saw it lying a
crumpled lilac heap in the very middle of the enemy's yard.

This was horrible! Not merely losing the bonnet, for Katy was
comfortably indifferent as to what became of her clothes, but to lose it
_so_. In another minute the Miller girls would be out. Already she
seemed to see them dancing war-dances round the unfortunate bonnet,
pinning it on a pole, using it as a football, waving it over the fence,
and otherwise treating it as Indians treat a captive taken in war. Was
it to be endured? Never! Better die first! And with very much the
feeling of a person who faces destruction rather than forfeit honor,
Katy set her teeth, and sliding rapidly down the roof, seized the fence,
and with one bold leap vaulted into Miss Miller's yard.

Just then the recess bell tinkled; and a little Millerite who sat by the
window, and who, for two seconds, had been dying to give the exciting
information, squeaked out to the others: "There's Katy Carr in our

Out poured the Millerites, big and little. Their wrath and
indignation at this daring invasion cannot be described. With a howl
of fury they precipitated themselves upon Katy, but she was quick as
they, and holding the rescued bonnet in her hand, was already
half-way up the fence.

There are moments when it is a fine thing to be tall. On this occasion
Katy's long legs and arms served her an excellent turn. Nothing but a
Daddy Long Legs ever climbed so fast or so wildly as she did now. In one
second she had gained the top of the fence. Just as she went over a
Millerite seized her by the last foot, and almost dragged her boot off.

Almost, not quite, thanks to the stout thread with which Aunt Izzie had
sewed on the buttons. With a frantic kick Katy released herself, and had
the satisfaction of seeing her assailant go head over heels backward,
while, with a shriek of triumph and fright, she herself plunged headlong
into the midst of a group of Knights. They were listening with open
mouths to the uproar, and now stood transfixed at the astonishing
spectacle of one of their number absolutely returning alive from the
camp of the enemy.

I cannot tell you what a commotion ensued. The Knights were beside
themselves with pride and triumph. Katy was kissed and hugged, and made
to tell her story over and over again, while rows of exulting girls sat
on the wood-house roof to crow over the discomfited Millerites: and
when, later, the foe rallied and began to retort over the fence, Clover,
armed with a tack-hammer, was lifted up in the arms of one of the tall
girls to rap the intruding knuckles as they appeared on the top. This
she did with such good-will that the Millerites were glad to drop down
again, and mutter vengeance at a safe distance. Altogether it was a
great day for the school, a day to be remembered. As time went on, Katy,
what with the excitement of her adventure, and of being praised and
petted by the big girls, grew perfectly reckless, and hardly knew what
she said or did.

A good many of the scholars lived too far from school to go home at
noon, and were in the habit of bringing their lunches in baskets, and
staying all day. Katy and Clover were of this number. This noon, after
the dinners were eaten, it was proposed that they should play something
in the school-room, and Katy's unlucky star put it into her head to
invent a new game, which she called the Game of Rivers.

It was played in the following manner: Each girl took the name of a
river, and laid out for herself an appointed path through the room,
winding among the desks and benches, and making a low, roaring sound, to
imitate the noise of water. Cecy was the Platte, Marianne Brooks, a tall
girl, the Mississippi, Alice Blair, the Ohio, Clover, the Penobscot, and
so on. They were instructed to run into each other once in a while,
because, as Katy said, "rivers do." As for Katy herself, she was "Father
Ocean," and, growling horribly, raged up and down the platform where
Mrs. Knight usually sat. Every now and then, when the others were at the
far end of the room, she would suddenly cry out, "Now for a meeting of
the waters!" whereupon all the rivers bouncing, bounding, scrambling,
screaming, would turn and run toward Father Ocean, while he roared
louder than all of them put together, and made short rushes up and down,
to represent the movement of waves on a beach.

Such a noise as this beautiful game made was never heard in the town of
Burnet before or since. It was like the bellowing of the bulls of
Bashan, the squeaking of pigs, the cackle of turkey-cocks, and the laugh
of wild hyenas all at once; and, in addition, there was a great banging
of furniture and scraping of many feet on an uncarpeted floor. People
going by stopped and stared, children cried, an old lady asked why some
one didn't run for a policeman; while the Miller girls listened to the
proceedings with malicious pleasure, and told everybody that it was the
noise that Mrs. Knight's scholars "usually made at recess."

Mrs. Knight coming back from dinner, was much amazed to see a crowd of
people collected in front of her school. As she drew near, the sounds
reached her, and then she became really frightened, for she thought
somebody was being murdered on her premises. Hurrying in, she threw open
the door, and there, to her dismay, was the whole room in a frightful
state of confusion and uproar: chairs flung down, desks upset, ink
streaming on the floor; while in the midst of the ruin the frantic
rivers raced and screamed, and old Father Ocean, with a face as red as
fire, capered like a lunatic on the platform.

"What _does_ this mean?" gasped poor Mrs. Knight, almost unable to speak
for horror.

At the sound of her voice the Rivers stood still, Father Ocean brought
his prances to an abrupt close, and slunk down from the platform. All
of a sudden, each girl seemed to realize what a condition the room was
in, and what a horrible thing she had done. The timid ones cowered
behind their desks, the bold ones tried to look unconscious, and, to
make matters worse, the scholars who had gone home to dinner began to
return, staring at the scene of disaster, and asking, in whispers, what
had been going on?

Mrs. Knight rang the bell. When the school had come to order, she had
the desks and chairs picked up, while she herself brought wet cloths to
sop the ink from the floor. This was done in profound silence; and the
expression of Mrs. Knight's face was so direful and solemn, that a fresh
damp fell upon the spirits of the guilty Rivers, and Father Ocean wished
himself thousands of miles away.

When all was in order again, and the girls had taken their seats, Mrs.
Knight made a short speech. She said she never was so shocked in her
life before; she had supposed that she could trust them to behave like
ladies when her back was turned. The idea that they could act so
disgracefully, make such an uproar and alarm people going by, had never
occurred to her, and she was deeply pained. It was setting a bad example
to all the neighborhood--by which Mrs. Knight meant the rival school,
Miss Miller having just sent over a little girl, with her compliments,
to ask if any one was hurt, and could _she_ do anything? which was
naturally aggravating! Mrs. Knight hoped they were sorry; she thought
they must be--sorry and ashamed. The exercises could now go on as usual.
Of course some punishment would be inflicted for the offense, but she
should have to reflect before deciding what it ought to be. Meantime she
wanted them all to think it over seriously; and if any one felt that she
was more to blame than the others, now was the moment to rise and
confess it.

Katy's heart gave a great thump, but she rose bravely: "I made up the
game, and I was Father Ocean," she said to the astonished Mrs. Knight,
who glared at her for a minute, and then replied solemnly: "Very well,
Katy--sit down;" which Katy did, feeling more ashamed than ever, but
somehow relieved in her mind. There is a saving grace in truth which
helps truth-tellers through the worst of their troubles, and Katy found
this out now.

The afternoon was long and hard. Mrs. Knight did not smile once; the
lessons dragged; and Katy, after the heat and excitement of the
forenoon, began to feel miserable. She had received more than one hard
blow during the meetings of the waters, and had bruised herself almost
without knowing it, against the desks and chairs. All these places now
began to ache: her head throbbed so that she could hardly see, and a
lump of something heavy seemed to be lying on her heart.

When school was over, Mrs. Knight rose and said, "The young ladies who
took part in the game this afternoon are requested to remain." All the
others went away, and shut the door behind them. It was a horrible
moment: the girls never forgot it, or the hopeless sound of the door as
the last departing scholar clapped it after her as she left.

I can't begin to tell you what it was that Mrs. Knight said to them: it
was very affecting, and before long most of the girls began to cry. The
penalty for their offense was announced to be the loss of recess for
three weeks; but that wasn't half so bad as seeing Mrs. Knight so
"religious and afflicted," as Cecy told her mother afterward. One by one
the sobbing sinners departed from the schoolroom. When most of them were
gone, Mrs. Knight called Katy up to the platform, and said a few words
to her specially. She was not really severe, but Katy was too penitent
and worn out to bear much, and before long was weeping like a
water-spout, or like the ocean she had pretended to be.

At this, tender-hearted Mrs. Knight was so much affected that she let
her off at once, and even kissed her in token of forgiveness, which made
poor Ocean sob harder than ever. All the way home she sobbed; faithful
little Clover, running along by her side in great distress, begging her
to stop crying, and trying in vain to hold up the fragments of her
dress, which was torn in, at least, a dozen places. Katy could not stop
crying, and it was fortunate that Aunt Izzie happened to be out, and
that the only person who saw her in this piteous plight was Mary, the
nurse, who doted on the children, and was always ready to help them out
of their troubles.

On this occasion she petted and cosseted Katy exactly as if it had been
Johnnie or little Phil. She took her on her lap, bathed the hot head,
brushed the hair, put arnica on the bruises, and produced a clean frock,
so that by tea-time the poor child, except for her red eyes, looked like
herself again, and Aunt Izzie didn't notice anything unusual.

For a wonder, Dr. Carr was at home that evening. It was always a great
treat to the children when this happened, and Katy thought herself happy
when, after the little ones had gone to bed, she got Papa to herself,
and told him the whole story.

"Papa," she said, sitting on his knee, which, big girl as she was, she
liked very much to do, "what is the reason that makes some days so lucky
and other days so unlucky? Now today began all wrong, and everything
that happened in it was wrong, and on other days I begin right, and all
goes right, straight through. If Aunt Izzie hadn't kept me in the
morning, I shouldn't have lost my mark, and then I shouldn't have been
cross, and then _perhaps_ I shouldn't have got in my other scrapes."

"But what made Aunt Izzie keep you, Katy?"

"To sew on the string of my bonnet, Papa."

"But how did it happen that the string was off?"

"Well," said Katy, reluctantly, "I am afraid that was _my_ fault, for it
came off on Tuesday, and I didn't fasten it on."

"So you see we must go back of Aunt Izzie for the beginning of this
unlucky day of yours, Childie. Did you ever hear the old saying about,
'For the want of a nail the shoe was lost'?"

"No, never--tell it to me!" cried Katy, who loved stories as well as
when she was three years old.

So Dr. Carr repeated--

"For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost,
For the want of a horse the rider was lost,
For the want of a rider the battle was lost,
For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost,
And all for want of a horse-shoe nail."

"Oh, Papa!" exclaimed Katy, giving him a great hug as she got off his
knee, "I see what you mean! Who would have thought such a little
speck of a thing as not sewing on my string could make a difference?
But I don't believe I shall get in any more scrapes, for I sha'n't
ever forget--

"'For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.'"



But I am sorry to say that my poor, thoughtless Katy _did_ forget,
and did get into another scrape, and that no later than the very
next Monday.

Monday was apt to be rather a stormy day at the Carrs'. There was the
big wash to be done, and Aunt Izzie always seemed a little harder to
please, and the servants a good deal crosser than on common days. But I
think it was also, in part, the fault of the children, who, after the
quiet of Sunday, were specially frisky and uproarious, and readier than
usual for all sorts of mischief.

To Clover and Elsie, Sunday seemed to begin at Saturday's bed-time, when
their hair was wet, and screwed up in papers, that it might curl next
day. Elsie's waved naturally, so Aunt Izzie didn't think it necessary to
pin her papers very tight; but Clover's thick, straight locks required
to be pinched hard before they would give even the least twirl, and to
her, Saturday night was one of misery. She would lie tossing, and
turning, and trying first one side of her head and then the other; but
whichever way she placed herself, the hard knobs and the pins stuck out
and hurt her; so when at last she fell asleep, it was face down, with
her small nose buried in the pillow, which was not comfortable, and gave
her bad dreams. In consequence of these sufferings Clover hated curls,
and when she "made up" stories for the younger children, they always
commenced: "The hair of the beautiful princess was as straight as a
yard-stick, and she never did it up in papers--never!"

Sunday always began with a Bible story, followed by a breakfast of baked
beans, which two things were much tangled up together in Philly's mind.
After breakfast the children studied their Sunday-school lessons, and
then the big carryall came round, and they drove to church, which was a
good mile off. It was a large, old-fashioned church, with galleries, and
long pews with high red-cushioned seats.

The choir sat at the end, behind a low, green curtain, which slipped
from side to side on rods. When the sermon began, they would draw the
curtain aside and show themselves, all ready to listen, but the rest of
the time they kept it shut. Katy always guessed that they must be having
good times behind the green curtain--eating orange-peel, perhaps, or
reading the Sunday-school books--and she often wished she might sit up
there among them.

The seat in Dr. Carr's pew was so high that none of the children, except
Katy, could touch the floor, even with the point of a toe. This made
their feet go to sleep; and when they felt the queer little pin-pricks
which drowsy feet use to rouse themselves with, they would slide off the
seat, and sit on the benches to get over it. Once there, and well hidden
from view, it was almost impossible not to whisper. Aunt Izzie would
frown and shake her head, but it did little good, especially as Phil and
Dorry were sleeping with their heads on her lap, and it took both her
hands to keep them from rolling off into the bottom of the pew. When
good old Dr. Stone said, "Finally, my brethren," she would begin waking
them up. It was hard work sometimes, but generally she succeeded, so
that during the last hymn the two stood together on the seat, quite
brisk and refreshed, sharing a hymn-book, and making believe to sing
like the older people.

After church came Sunday-school, which the children liked very much, and
then they went home to dinner, which was always the same on Sunday--cold
corned-beef, baked potatoes, and rice pudding. They did not go to church
in the afternoon unless they wished, but were pounced upon by Katy
instead, and forced to listen to the reading of _The Sunday Visitor_, a
religious paper, of which she was the editor. This paper was partly
written, partly printed, on a large sheet of foolscap, and had at the
top an ornamental device, in lead pencil, with "Sunday Visitor" in the
middle of it. The reading part began with a dull little piece of the
kind which grown people call an editorial, about "Neatness," or
"Obedience," or "Punctuality." The children always fidgeted when
listening to this, partly, I think, because it aggravated them to have
Katy recommending on paper, as very easy, the virtues which she herself
found it so hard to practise in real life. Next came anecdotes about
dogs and elephants and snakes, taken from the Natural History book, and
not very interesting, because the audience knew them by heart already. A
hymn or two followed, or a string of original verses, and, last of all,
a chapter of "Little Maria and Her Sisters," a dreadful tale, in which
Katy drew so much moral, and made such personal allusions to the faults
of the rest, that it was almost more than they could bear. In fact,
there had just been a nursery rebellion on the subject. You must know
that, for some weeks back, Katy had been too lazy to prepare any fresh
_Sunday Visitors_, and so had forced the children to sit in a row and
listen to the back numbers, which she read aloud from the very
beginning! "Little Maria" sounded much worse when taken in these large
doses, and Clover and Elsie, combining for once, made up their minds to
endure it no longer. So, watching their chance, they carried off the
whole edition, and poked it into the kitchen fire, where they watched it
burn with a mixture of fear and delight which it was comical to witness.
They dared not confess the deed, but it was impossible not to look
conscious when Katy was flying about and rummaging after her lost
treasure, and she suspected them, and was very irate in consequence.

The evenings of Sunday were always spent in repeating hymns to Papa and
Aunt Izzie. This was fun, for they all took turns, and there was quite a
scramble as to who should secure the favorites, such as, "The west hath
shut its gate of gold," and "Go when the morning shineth." On the whole,
Sunday was a sweet and pleasant day, and the children thought so; but,
from its being so much quieter than other days, they always got up on
Monday full of life and mischief, and ready to fizz over at any minute,
like champagne bottles with the wires just cut.

This particular Monday was rainy, so there couldn't be any out-door
play, which was the usual vent for over-high spirits. The little ones,
cooped up in the nursery all the afternoon, had grown perfectly riotous.
Philly was not quite well, and had been taking medicine. The medicine
was called _Elixir Pro_. It was a great favorite with Aunt Izzie, who
kept a bottle of it always on hand. The bottle was large and black, with
a paper label tied round its neck, and the children shuddered at the
sight of it.

After Phil had stopped roaring and spluttering, and play had begun
again, the dolls, as was only natural, were taken ill also, and so was
"Pikery," John's little yellow chair, which she always pretended was a
doll too. She kept an old apron tied on his back, and generally took him
to bed with her--not into bed, that would have been troublesome; but
close by, tied to the bed-post. Now, as she told the others, Pikery was
very sick indeed. He must have some medicine, just like Philly.

"Give him some water," suggested Dorry.

"No," said John, decidedly, "it must be black and out of a bottle, or it
won't do any good."

After thinking a moment, she trotted quietly across the passage into
Aunt Izzie's room. Nobody was there, but John knew where the Elixir Pro
was kept--in the closet on the third shelf. She pulled one of the
drawers out a little, climbed up, and reached it down. The children were
enchanted when she marched back, the bottle in one hand, the cork in the
other, and proceeded to pour a liberal dose on to Pikery's wooden seat,
which John called his lap.

"There! there! my poor boy," she said, patting his shoulder--I mean his
arm--"swallow it down--it'll do you good."

Just then Aunt Izzie came in, and to her dismay saw a long trickle of
something dark and sticky running down on to the carpet. It was Pikery's
medicine, which he had refused to swallow.

"What is that?" she asked sharply.

"My baby is sick," faltered John, displaying the guilty bottle.

Aunt Izzie rapped her over the head with a thimble, and told her that
she was a very naughty child, whereupon Johnnie pouted, and cried a
little. Aunt Izzie wiped up the slop, and taking away the Elixir,
retired with it to her closet, saying that she "never knew anything like
it--it was always so on Mondays."

What further pranks were played in the nursery that day, I cannot
pretend to tell. But late in the afternoon a dreadful screaming was
heard, and when people rushed from all parts of the house to see what
was the matter, behold the nursery door was locked, and nobody could get
in. Aunt Izzie called through the keyhole to have it opened, but the
roars were so loud that it was long before she could get an answer. At
last Elsie, sobbing violently, explained that Dorry had locked the door,
and now the key wouldn't turn, and they couldn't open it. _Would_ they
have to stay there always, and starve?

"Of course you won't, you foolish child," exclaimed Aunt Izzie. "Dear,
dear, what on earth will come next? Stop crying, Elsie--do you hear me?
You shall all be got out in a few minutes."

And sure enough, the next thing came a rattling at the blinds, and there
was Alexander, the hired man, standing outside on a tall ladder and
nodding his head at the children. The little ones forgot their fright.
They flew to open the window, and frisked and jumped about Alexander as
he climbed in and unlocked the door. It struck them as being such a fine
thing to be let out in this way, that Dorry began to rather plume
himself for fastening them in.

But Aunt Izzie didn't take this view of the case. She scolded them well,
and declared they were troublesome children, who couldn't be trusted one
moment out of sight, and that she was more than half sorry she had
promised to go to the Lecture that evening. "How do I know," she
concluded, "that before I come home you won't have set the house on
fire, or killed somebody?"

"Oh, no we won't! no we won't!" whined the children, quite moved by this
frightful picture. But bless you--ten minutes afterward they had
forgotten all about it.

All this time Katy had been sitting on the ledge of the bookcase in the
Library, poring over a book. It was called Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered.
The man who wrote it was an Italian, but somebody had done the story
over into English. It was rather a queer book for a little girl to take
a fancy to, but somehow Katy liked it very much. It told about knights,
and ladies, and giants, and battles, and made her feel hot and cold by
turns as she read, and as if she must rush at something, and shout, and
strike blows. Katy was naturally fond of reading. Papa encouraged it, He
kept a few books locked up, and then turned her loose in the Library.
She read all sorts of things: travels, and sermons, and old magazines.
Nothing was so dull that she couldn't get through with it. Anything
really interesting absorbed her so that she never knew what was going on
about her. The little girls to whose houses she went visiting had found
this out, and always hid away their story-books when she was expected to
tea. If they didn't do this, she was sure to pick one up and plunge in,
and then it was no use to call her, or tug at her dress, for she neither
saw nor heard anything more, till it was time to go home.

This afternoon she read the Jerusalem till It was too dark to see any
more. On her way up stairs she met Aunt Izzie, with bonnet and shawl on.

"Where _have_ you been?" she said. "I have been calling you for the last

"I didn't hear you, ma'am."

"But where were you?" persisted Miss Izzie.

"In the Library, reading," replied Katy.

Her aunt gave a sort of sniff, but she knew Katy's ways, and said no

"I'm going out to drink tea with Mrs. Hall and attend the evening
Lecture," she went on. "Be sure that Clover gets her lesson, and if Cecy
comes over as usual, you must send her home early. All of you must be in
bed by nine."

"Yes'm," said Katy, but I fear she was not attending much, but thinking,
in her secret soul, how jolly it was to have Aunt Izzie go out for once.
Miss Carr was very faithful to her duties: she seldom left the children,
even for an evening, so whenever she did, they felt a certain sense of
novelty and freedom, which was dangerous as well as pleasant.

Still, I am sure that on this occasion Katy meant no mischief. Like all
excitable people she seldom did _mean_ to do wrong, she just did it when
it came into her head. Supper passed off successfully, and all might
have gone well, had it not been that after the lessons were learned and
Cecy had come in, they fell to talking about "Kikeri."

Kikeri was a game which had been very popular with them a year before.
They had invented it themselves, and chosen for it this queer name out
of an old fairy story. It was a sort of mixture of Blindman's Buff and
Tag--only instead of any one's eyes being bandaged, they all played in
the dark. One of the children would stay out in the hall, which was
dimly lighted from the stairs, while the others hid themselves in the
nursery. When they were all hidden, they would call out "Kikeri," as a
signal for the one in the hall to come in and find them. Of course,
coming from the light he could see nothing, while the others could see
only dimly. It was very exciting to stand crouching up in a corner and
watch the dark figure stumbling about and feeling to right and left,
while every now and then somebody, just escaping his clutches, would
slip past and gain the hall, which was "Freedom Castle," with a joyful
shout of "Kikeri, Kikeri, Kikeri, Ki!" Whoever was caught had to take
the place of the catcher. For a long time this game was the delight of
the Carr children; but so many scratches and black-and-blue spots came
of it, and so many of the nursery things were thrown down and broken,
that at last Aunt Izzie issued an order that it should not be played any
more. This was almost a year since; but talking of it now put it into
their heads to want to try it again.

"After all we didn't promise," said Cecy.

"No, and _Papa_ never said a word about our not playing it," added Katy,
to whom "Papa" was authority, and must always be minded, while Aunt
Izzie might now and then be defied.

So they all went up stairs. Dorry and John, though half undressed, were
allowed to join the game. Philly was fast asleep in another room.

It was certainly splendid fun. Once Clover climbed up on the
mantel-piece and sat there, and when Katy, who was finder, groped about
a little more wildly than usual, she caught hold of Clover's foot, and
couldn't imagine where it came from. Dorry got a hard knock, and cried,
and at another time Katy's dress caught on the bureau handle and was
frightfully torn, but these were too much affairs of every day to
interfere in the least with the pleasures of Kikeri. The fun and frolic
seemed to grow greater the longer they played. In the excitement, time
went on much faster than any of them dreamed. Suddenly, in the midst of
the noise, came a sound--the sharp distinct slam of the carryall-door at
the side entrance. Aunt Izzie had returned from her Lecture.

The dismay and confusion of that moment! Cecy slipped down stairs like
an eel, and fled on the wings of fear along the path which led to her
home. Mrs. Hall, as she bade Aunt Izzie good-night, and shut Dr. Carr's
front door behind her with a bang, might have been struck with the
singular fact that a distant bang came from her own front door like a
sort of echo. But she was not a suspicious woman; and when she went up
stairs there were Cecy's clothes neatly folded on a chair, and Cecy
herself in bed, fast asleep, only with a little more color than usual in
her cheeks.

Meantime, Aunt Izzie was on _her_ way up stairs, and such a panic as
prevailed in the nursery! Katie felt it, and basely scuttled off to her
own room, where she went to bed with all possible speed. But the others
found it much harder to go to bed; there were so many of them, all
getting into each other's way, and with no lamp to see by. Dorry and
John popped under the clothes half undressed, Elsie disappeared, and
Clover, too late for either, and hearing Aunt Izzie's step in the hall,
did this horrible thing--fell on her knees, with her face buried in a
chair, and began to say her prayers very hard indeed.

Aunt Izzie, coming in with a candle in her hand, stood in the doorway,
astonished at the spectacle. She sat down and waited for Clover to get
through, while Clover, on her part, didn't dare to get through, but went
on repeating "Now I lay me" over and over again, in a sort of despair.
At last Aunt Izzie said very grimly: "That will do, Clover, you can get
up!" and Clover rose, feeling like a culprit, which she was, for it was
much naughtier to pretend to be praying than to disobey Aunt Izzie and
be out of bed after ten o'clock, though I think Clover hardly understood
this then.

Aunt Izzie at once began to undress her, and while doing so asked so
many questions, that before long she had got at the truth of the whole
matter. She gave Clover a sharp scolding, and leaving her to wash her
tearful face, she went to the bed where John and Dorry lay, fast asleep,
and snoring as conspicuously as they knew how. Something strange in the
appearance of the bed made her look more closely: she lifted the
clothes, and there, sure enough, they were--half dressed, and with their
school-boots on.

Such a shake as Aunt Izzie gave the little scamps at this discovery,
would have roused a couple of dormice. Much against their will John and
Dorry were forced to wake up, and be slapped and scolded, and made
ready for bed, Aunt Izzie standing over them all the while, like a
dragon. She had just tucked them warmly in, when for the first time she
missed Elsie.

"Where is my poor little Elsie?" she exclaimed.

"In bed," said Clover, meekly.

"In bed!" repeated Aunt Izzie, much amazed. Then stooping down, she gave
a vigorous pull. The trundle-bed came into view, and sure enough, there
was Elsie, in full dress, shoes and all, but so fast asleep that not all
Aunt Izzie's shakes, and pinches, and calls, were able to rouse her. Her
clothes were taken off, her boots unlaced, her night-gown put on; but
through it all Elsie slept, and she was the only one of the children who
did not get the scolding she deserved that dreadful night.

Katy did not even pretend to be asleep when Aunt Izzie went to her room.
Her tardy conscience had waked up, and she was lying in bed, very
miserable at having drawn the others into a scrape as well as herself,
and at the failure of her last set of resolutions about "setting an
example to the younger ones."

So unhappy was she, that Aunt Izzie's severe words were almost a relief;
and though she cried herself to sleep, it was rather from the burden of
her own thoughts than because she had been scolded.

She cried even harder the next day, for Dr. Carr talked to her more
seriously than he had ever done before. He reminded her of the time when
her Mamma died, and of how she said, "Katy must be a Mamma to the little
ones, when she grows up." And he asked her if she didn't think the time
was come for beginning to take this dear place towards the children.
Poor Katy! She sobbed as if her heart would break at this, and though
she made no promises, I think she was never quite so thoughtless again,
after that day. As for the rest, Papa called them together and made them
distinctly understand that "Kikeri" was never to be played any more. It
was so seldom that Papa forbade any games, however boisterous, that this
order really made an impression on the unruly brood, and they never have
played Kikeri again, from that day to this.



"I declare," said Miss Petingill, laying down her work, "if them
children don't beat all! What on airth _are_ the going to do now?"

Miss Petingill was sitting in the little room in the back building,
which she always had when she came to the Carr's for a week's mending
and making over. She was the dearest, funniest old woman who ever went
out sewing by the day. Her face was round, and somehow made you think of
a very nice baked apple, it was so criss-crossed, and lined by a
thousand good-natured puckers. She was small and wiry, and wore caps and
a false front, which was just the color of a dusty Newfoundland dog's
back. Her eyes were dim, and she used spectacles; but for all that, she
was an excellent worker. Every one liked Miss Petingill though Aunt
Izzie _did_ once say that her tongue "was hung in the middle." Aunt
Izzie made this remark when she was in a temper, and was by no means
prepared to have Phil walk up at once and request Miss Petingill to
"stick it out," which she obligingly did; while the rest of the children
crowded to look. They couldn't see that it was different from other
tongues, but Philly persisted in finding something curious about it;
there must be, you know--since it was hung in that queer way!

Wherever Miss Petingill went, all sorts of treasures went with her. The
children liked to have her come, for it was as good as a fairy story, or
the circus, to see her things unpacked. Miss Petingill was very much
afraid of burglars; she lay awake half the night listening for them and
nothing on earth would have persuaded her to go anywhere, leaving behind
what she called her "Plate." This stately word meant six old teaspoons,
very thin and bright and sharp, and a butter-knife, whose handle set
forth that it was "A testimonial of gratitude, for saving the life of
Ithuriel Jobson, aged seven, on the occasion of his being attacked with
quinsy sore throat." Miss Petingill was very proud of her knife. It and
the spoons travelled about in a little basket which hung on her arm, and
was never allowed to be out of her sight, even when the family she was
sewing for were the honestest people in the world.

Then, beside the plate-basket, Miss Petingill never stirred without Tom,
her tortoiseshell cat. Tom was a beauty, and knew his power; he ruled
Miss Petingill with a rod of iron, and always sat in the rocking-chair
when there was one. It was no matter where _she_ sat, Miss Petingill
told people, but Tom was delicate, and must be made comfortable. A big
family Bible always came too, and a special red merino pin-cushion, and
some "shade pictures" of old Mr. and Mrs. Petingill and Peter Petingill,
who was drowned at sea; and photographs of Mrs. Porter, who used to be
Marcia Petingill, and Mrs. Porter's husband, and all the Porter
children. Many little boxes and jars came also, and a long row of phials
and bottles, filled with homemade physic and herb teas. Miss Petingill
could not have slept without having them beside her, for, as she said,
how did she know that she might not be "took sudden" with something, and
die for want of a little ginger-balsam or pennyroyal?

The Carr children always made so much noise, that it required something
unusual to make Miss Petingill drop her work, as she did now, and fly to
the window. In fact there was a tremendous hubbub: hurrahs from Dorry,
stamping of feet, and a great outcry of shrill, glad voices. Looking
down, Miss Petingill saw the whole six--no, seven, for Cecy was there
too--stream out of the wood-house door--which wasn't a door, but only a
tall open arch--and rush noisily across the yard. Katy was at the head,
bearing a large black bottle without any cork in it, while the others
carried in each hand what seemed to be a cookie.

"Katherine Carr! Kather-_ine_!" screamed Miss Petingill, tapping loudly
on the glass. "Don't you see that it's raining? you ought to be ashamed
to let your little brothers and sisters go out and get wet in such a
way!" But nobody heard her, and the children vanished into the shed,
where nothing could be seen but a distant flapping of pantalettes and
frilled trousers, going up what seemed to be a ladder, farther back in
the shed. So, with a dissatisfied cluck, Miss Petingill drew back her
head, perched the spectacles on her nose, and went to work again on
Katy's plaid alpaca, which had two immense zigzag rents across the
middle of the front breadth. Katy's frocks, strange to say, always tore
exactly in that place!

If Miss Petingill's eyes could have reached a little farther, they would
have seen that it wasn't a ladder up which the children were climbing,
but a tall wooden post, with spikes driven into it about a foot apart.
It required quite a stride to get from one spike to the other; in fact
the littler ones couldn't have managed it at all, had it not been for
Clover and Cecy "boosting" very hard from below, while Katy, making a
long arm, clawed from above. At last they were all safely up, and in the
delightful retreat which I am about to describe:

Imagine a low, dark loft without any windows, and with only a very
little light coming in through the square hole in the floor, to which
the spikey post led. There was a strong smell of corn-cobs, though the
corn had been taken away, a great deal of dust and spiderweb in the
corners, and some wet spots on the boards; for the roof always leaked a
little in rainy weather.

This was the place, which for some reason I have never been able to find
out, the Carr children preferred to any other on rainy Saturdays, when
they could not play out-doors, Aunt Izzie was as much puzzled at this
fancy as I am. When she was young (a vague, far-off time, which none of
her nieces and nephews believed in much), she had never had any of these
queer notions about getting off into holes and corners, and poke-away
places. Aunt Izzie would gladly have forbidden them to go the loft, but
Dr. Carr had given his permission, so all she could do was to invent
stories about children who had broken their bones in various dreadful
ways, by climbing posts and ladders. But these stories made no
impression on any of the children except little Phil, and the
self-willed brood kept on their way, and climbed their spiked post as
often as they liked.

"What's in the bottle?" demanded Dorry, the minute he was fairly landed
in the loft.

"Don't be greedy," replied Katy, severely; "you will know when the time
comes. It is something _delicious_, I can assure you.

"Now," she went on, having thus quenched Dorry, "all of you had better
give me your cookies to put away: if you don't, they'll be sure to be
eaten up before the feast, and then you know there wouldn't be anything
to make a feast of."

So all of them handed over their cookies. Dorry, who had begun on his as
he came up the ladder, was a little unwilling, but he was too much in
the habit of minding Katy to dare to disobey. The big bottle was set in
a corner, and a stack of cookies built up around it.

"That's right," proceeded Katy, who, as oldest and biggest, always took
the lead in their plays. "Now if we're fixed and ready to begin, the
Fete (Katy pronounced it _Feet_) can commence. The opening exercise will
be 'A Tragedy of the Alhambra,' by Miss Hall."

"No," cried Clover; "first 'The Blue Wizard, or Edwitha of the
Hebrides,' you know, Katy."

"Didn't I tell you?" said Katy; "a dreadful accident has happened to

"Oh, what?" cried all the rest, for Edwitha was rather a favorite with
the family. It was one of the many serial stories which Katy was forever
writing, and was about a lady, a knight, a blue wizard, and a poodle
named Bop. It had been going on so many months now, that everybody had
forgotten the beginning, and nobody had any particular hope of living to
hear the end, but still the news of its untimely fate was a shock.

"I'll tell you," said Katy. "Old Judge Kirby called this morning to
see Aunt Izzie; I was studying in the little room, but I saw him come
in, and pull out the big chair and sit down, and I almost screamed
out 'don't!'"

"Why?" cried the children.

"Don't you see? I had stuffed 'Edwitha' down between the back and the
seat. It was a _beau_tiful hiding-place, for the seat goes back ever so
far; but Edwitha was such a fat bundle, and old Judge Kirby takes up so
much room, that I was afraid there would be trouble. And sure enough,
he had hardly dropped down Before there was a great crackling of paper,
and he jumped up again and called out, 'Bless me! what is that?' And
then he began poking, and poking, and just as he had poked out the
whole bundle, and was putting on his spectacles to see what it was,
Aunt Izzie came in."

"Well, what next?" cried the children, immensely tickled.

"Oh!" continued Katy, "Aunt Izzie put on her glasses too, and screwed up
her eyes--you know the way she does, and she and the judge read a little
bit of it; that part at the first, you remember, where Bop steals the
blue-pills, and the Wizard tries to throw him into the sea. You can't
think how funny it was to hear Aunt Izzie reading 'Edwitha' out loud--"
and Katy went into convulsions at the recollection "where she got to 'Oh
Bop--my angel Bop--' I just rolled under the table, and stuffed the
table-cover in my mouth to keep from screaming right out. By and by I
heard her call Debby, and give her the papers, and say: 'Here is a mass
of trash which I wish you to put at once into the kitchen fire.' And she
told me afterward that she thought I would be in an insane asylum before
I was twenty. It was too bad," ended Katy half laughing and half
crying, "to burn up the new chapter and all. But there's one good
thing--she didn't find 'The Fairy of the Dry Goods Box,' that was
stuffed farther back in the seat.

"And now," continued the mistress of ceremonies, "we will begin. Miss
Hall will please rise."

"Miss Hall," much flustered at her fine name, got up with very
red cheeks.

"It was once upon a time," she read, "Moonlight lay on the halls of the
Alhambra, and the knight, striding impatiently down the passage, thought
she would never come."

"Who, the moon?" asked Clover.

"No, of course not," replied Cecy, "a lady he was in love with. The next
verse is going to tell about her, only you interrupted.

"She wore a turban of silver, with a jewelled crescent. As she stole
down the corridor the beams struck it and it glittered like stars.

"'So you are come, Zuleika?'

"'Yes, my lord.'

"Just then a sound as of steel smote upon the ear, and Zuleika's
mail-clad father rushed in. He drew his sword, so did the other. A
moment more, and they both lay dead and stiff in the beams of the moon.
Zuleika gave a loud shriek, and threw herself upon their bodies. She was
dead, too! And so ends the Tragedy of the Alhambra."

"That's lovely," said Katy, drawing a long breath, "only very sad! What
beautiful stories you do write, Cecy! But I wish you wouldn't always
kill the people. Why couldn't the knight have killed the father,
and--no, I suppose Zuleika wouldn't have married him then. Well, the
father might have--oh, bother! why must anybody be killed, anyhow? why
not have them fall on each other's necks, and make up?"

"Why, Katy!" cried Cecy, "it wouldn't have been a tragedy then. You know
the name was A _Tragedy_ of the Alhambra."

"Oh, well," said Katy, hurriedly, for Cecy's lips were beginning to
pout, and her fair, pinkish face to redden, as if she were about to cry;
"perhaps it _was_ prettier to have them all die; only I thought, for
a change, you know!--What a lovely word that was--. 'Corregidor'--what
does it mean?"

"I don't know," replied Cecy, quite consoled. "It was in the 'Conquest
of Granada.' Something to walk over, I believe."

"The next," went on Katy, consulting her paper, "is 'Yap,' a Simple
Poem, by Clover Carr."

All the children giggled, but Clover got up composedly, and recited the
following verses:

"Did you ever know Yap?
The best little dog
Who e'er sat on lap
Or barked at a frog.

"His eyes were like beads,
His tail like a mop,
And it waggled as if
It never would stop.

"His hair was like silk
Of the glossiest sheen,
He always ate milk,
And once the cold-cream

"Off the nursery bureau
(That line is too long!)
It made him quite ill,
So endeth my song.

"For Yappy he died
Just two months ago,
And we oughtn't to sing
At a funeral, you know."

The "Poem" met with immense applause; all the children laughed, and
shouted, and clapped, till the loft rang again. But Clover kept her face
perfectly, and sat down as demure as ever, except that the little
dimples came and went at the corners of her mouth; dimples, partly
natural, and partly, I regret to say, the result of a pointed
slate-pencil, with which Clover was in the habit of deepening them every
day while she studied her lessons.

"Now," said Katy, after the noise had subsided, "now come 'Scripture
Verses,' by Miss Elsie and Joanna Carr. Hold up your head, Elsie, and
speak distinctly; and oh, Johnnie, you _mustn't_ giggle in that way
when it comes your turn!"

But Johnnie only giggled the harder at this appeal, keeping her hands
very tight across her mouth, and peeping out over her fingers. Elsie,
however, was solemn as a little judge, and with great dignity began:

"An angel with a fiery sword,
Came to send Adam and Eve abroad
And as they journeyed through the skies
They took one look at Paradise.
They thought of all the happy hours
Among the birds and fragrant bowers,
And Eve she wept, and Adam bawled,
And both together loudly squalled."

Dorry snickered at this, but sedate Clover hushed him.

"You mustn't," she said; "it's about the Bible, you know. Now John, it's
your turn."

But Johnnie would persist in holding her hands over her mouth, while her
fat little shoulders shook with laughter. At last, with a great effort,
she pulled her face straight, and speaking as fast as she possibly
could, repeated, in a sort of burst:

"Balaam's donkey saw the Angel,
And stopped short in fear.
Balaam didn't see the Angel,
Which is very queer."

After which she took refuge again behind her fingers, while Elsie went

"Elijah by the creek,
He by ravens fed,
Took from their horny beak
Pieces of meat and bread."

"Come, Johnnie," said Katy, but the incorrigible Johnnie was shaking
again, and all they could make out was--

"The bears came down, and ate------and ate."

These "Verses" were part of a grand project on which Clover and Elsie
had been busy for more than a year. It was a sort of rearrangement of
Scripture for infant minds; and when it was finished, they meant to have
it published, bound in red, with daguerreotypes of the two authoresses
on the cover. "The Youth's Poetical Bible" was to be the name of it.
Papa, much tickled with the scraps which he overheard, proposed,
instead, "The Trundle-Bed Book," as having been composed principally in
that spot, but Elsie and Clover were highly indignant, and would not
listen to the idea for a moment.

After the "Scripture Verses," came Dorry's turn. He had been allowed to
choose for himself, which was unlucky, as his taste was peculiar, not
to say gloomy. On this occasion he had selected that cheerful hymn
which begins--

"Hark, from the tombs a doleful sound."

And he now began to recite it in a lugubrious voice and with great
emphasis, smacking his lips, as it were, over such lines as--

"Princes, this clay _shall_ be your bed,
In spite of all your towers."

The older children listened with a sort of fascinated horror, rather
enjoying the cold chills which ran down their backs, and huddling close
together, as Dorry's hollow tones echoed from the dark corners of the
loft. It was too much for Philly, however. At the close of the piece he
was found to be in tears.

"I don't want to st-a-a-y up here and be groaned at," he sobbed.

"There, you bad boy!" cried Katy, all the more angry because she was
conscious of having enjoyed it herself, "that's what you do with your
horrid hymns, frightening us to death and making Phil cry!" And she gave
Dorry a little shake. He began to whimper, and as Phil was still
sobbing, and Johnnie had begun to sob too, out of sympathy with the
others, the _Feet_ in the Loft seemed likely to come to a sad end.

"I'm goin' to tell Aunt Izzie that I don't like you," declared Dorry,
putting one leg through the opening in the floor.

"No, you aren't," said Katy, seizing him, "you are going to stay,
because _now_ we are going to have the Feast! Do stop, Phil; and
Johnnie, don't be a goose, but come and pass round the cookies."

The word "Feast" produced a speedy effect on the spirits of the party.
Phil cheered at once, and Dorry changed his mind about going. The black
bottle was solemnly set in the midst, and the cookies were handed about
by Johnnie, who was now all smiles. The cookies had scalloped edges and
caraway seeds inside, and were very nice. There were two apiece; and as
the last was finished, Katy put her hand in her pocket, and amid great
applause, produced the crowning addition to the repast--seven long,
brown sticks of cinnamon.

"Isn't it fun?" she said. "Debby was real good-natured to-day, and let
me put my own hand into the box, so I picked out the longest sticks
there were. Now, Cecy, as you're company, you shall have the first drink
out of the bottle."

The "something delicious" proved to be weak vinegar-and-water. It was
quite warm, but somehow, drank up there in the loft, and out of a
bottle, it tasted very nice. Beside, they didn't _call_ it
vinegar-and-water--of course not! Each child gave his or her swallow a
different name, as if the bottle were like Signor Blitz's and could pour
out a dozen things at once. Clover called her share "Raspberry Shrub,"
Dorry christened his "Ginger Pop," while Cecy, who was romantic, took
her three sips under the name of "Hydomel," which she explained was
something nice, made, she believed, of beeswax. The last drop gone, and
the last bit of cinnamon crunched, the company came to order again, for
the purpose of hearing Philly repeat his one piece,--

"Little drops of water,"

which exciting poem he had said every Saturday as far back as they could
remember. After that Katy declared the literary part of the "Feet" over,
and they all fell to playing "Stagecoach," which, in spite of close
quarters and an occasional bump from the roof, was such good fun, that a
general "Oh dear!" welcomed the ringing of the tea-bell. I suppose
cookies and vinegar had taken away their appetites, for none of them
were hungry, and Dorry astonished Aunt Izzie very much by eyeing the
table in a disgusted way, and saying: "Pshaw! _only_ plum sweatmeats and
sponge cake and hot biscuit! I don't want any supper."

"What ails the child? he must be sick," said Dr. Carr; but Katy

"Oh no, Papa, it isn't that--only we've been having a feast in
the loft."

"Did you have a good time?" asked Papa, while Aunt Izzie gave a
dissatisfied groan. And all the children answered at once:



"Aunt Izzie, may I ask Imogen Clark to spend the day here on Saturday?"
cried Katy, bursting in one afternoon.

"Who on earth is Imogen Clark? I never heard the name before,"
replied her aunt.

"Oh, the _loveliest_ girl! She hasn't been going to Mrs. Knight's school
but a little while, but we're the greatest friends. And she's perfectly
beautiful, Aunt Izzie. Her hands are just as white as snow, and no
bigger than _that_. She's got the littlest waist of any girl in school,
and she's real sweet, and so self-denying and unselfish! I don't believe
she has a bit good times at home, either. Do let me ask her!"

"How do you know she's so sweet and self-denying, if you've known her
such a short time?" asked Aunt Izzie, in an unpromising tone.

"Oh, she tells me everything! We always walk together at recess now. I
know all about her, and she's just lovely! Her father used to be real
rich, but they're poor now, and Imogen had to have her boots patched
twice last winter. I guess she's the flower of her family. You can't
think how I love her!" concluded Katy, sentimentally.

"No, I can't," said Aunt Izzie. "I never could see into these sudden
friendships of yours, Katy, and I'd rather you wouldn't invite this
Imogen, or whatever her name is, till I've had a chance to ask somebody
about her."

Katy clasped her hands in despair. "Oh, Aunt Izzie!" she cried, "Imogen
knows that I came in to ask you, and she's standing at the gate at this
moment, waiting to hear what you say. Please let me, just this once! I
shall be so dreadfully ashamed not to."

"Well," said Miss Izzie, moved by the wretchedness of Katy's face, "if
you've asked her already, it's no use my saying no, I suppose. But
recollect, Katy, this is not to happen again. I can't have you inviting
girls, and then coming for my leave. Your father won't be at all
pleased. He's very particular about whom you make friends with. Remember
how Mrs. Spenser turned out."

Poor Katy! Her propensity to fall violently in love with new people was
always getting her into scrapes. Ever since she began to walk and talk,
"Katy's intimate friends" had been one of the jokes of the household.

Papa once undertook to keep a list of them, but the number grew so great
that he gave it up in despair. First on the list was a small Irish
child, named Marianne O'Riley. Marianne lived in a street which Katy
passed on her way to school. It was not Mrs. Knight's, but an ABC
school, to which Dorry and John now went. Marianne used to be always
making sand-pies in front of her mother's house, and Katy, who was about
five years old, often stopped to help her. Over this mutual pastry they
grew so intimate, that Katy resolved to adopt Marianne as her own little
girl, and bring her up in a safe and hidden corner.

She told Clover of this plan, but nobody else. The two children, full of
their delightful secret, began to save pieces of bread and cookies from
their supper every evening. By degrees they collected a great heap of
dry crusts, and other refreshments, which they put safely away in the
garret. They also saved the apples which were given them for two weeks,
and made a bed in a big empty box, with cotton quilts, and the dolls'
pillows out of the baby-house. When all was ready, Katy broke the plan
to her beloved Marianne, and easily persuaded her to run away and take
possession of this new home.

"We won't tell Papa and Mamma till she's quite grown up," Katy said to
Clover; "then we'll bring her down stairs, and _won't_ they be
surprised? Don't let's call her Marianne any longer, either. It isn't
pretty. We'll name her Susquehanna instead--Susquehanna Carr. Recollect,
Marianne, you mustn't answer if I call you Marianne--only when I say

"Yes'm," replied Marianne, very meekly.

For a whole day all went on delightfully. Susquehanna lived in her
wooden box, ate all the apples and the freshest cookies, and was happy.
The two children took turns to steal away and play with the "Baby," as
they called Marianne, though she was a great deal bigger than Clover.
But when night came on, and nurse swooped on Katy and Clover, and
carried them off to bed, Miss O'Riley began to think that the garret was
a dreadful place. Peeping out of her box, she could see black things
standing in corners, which she did not recollect seeing in the day-time.
They were really trunks and brooms and warming-pans, but somehow, in the
darkness, they looked different--big and awful. Poor little Marianne
bore it as long as she could; but when at last a rat began to scratch in
the wall close beside her, her courage gave way entirely, and she
screamed at the top of her voice.

"What is that?" said Dr. Carr, who had just come in, and was on his way
up stairs.

"It sounds as if it came from the attic," said Mrs. Carr (for this was
before Mamma died). "Can it be that one of the children has got out of
bed and wandered up stairs in her sleep?"

No, Katy and Clover were safe in the nursery; so Dr. Carr took a
candle and went as fast as he could to the attic, where the yells were
growing terrific. When he reached the top of the stairs, the cries
ceased. He looked about. Nothing was to be seen at first, then a
little head appeared over the edge of a big wooden box, and a piteous
voice sobbed out:

"Ah, Miss Katy, and indeed I can't be stayin' any longer. There's
rats in it!"

"Who on earth _are_ you?" asked the amazed Doctor.

"Sure I'm Miss Katy's and Miss Clover's Baby. But I don't want to be a
baby any longer. I want to go home and see my mother." And again the
poor little midge lifted up her voice and wept.

I don't think Dr. Carr ever laughed so hard in his life, as when
finally he got to the bottom of the story, and found that Katy and
Clover had been "adopting" a child. But he was very kind to poor
Susquehanna, and carried her down stairs in his arms, to the nursery.
There, in a bed close to the other children, she soon forgot her
troubles and fell asleep.

The little sisters were much surprised when they waked up in the
morning, and found their Baby asleep beside them. But their joy was
speedily turned to tears. After breakfast, Dr. Carr carried Marianne
home to her mother, who was in a great fright over her disappearance,
and explained to the children that the garret plan must be given up.
Great was the mourning in the nursery; but as Marianne was allowed to
come and play with them now and then, they gradually got over their
grief. A few months later Mr. O'Riley moved away from Burnet, and that
was the end of Katy's first friendship.

The next was even funnier. There was a queer old black woman who lived
all alone by herself in a small house near the school. This old woman
had a very bad temper. The neighbors told horrible stories about her, so
that the children were afraid to pass the house. They used to turn
always just before they reached it, and cross to the other side of the
street. This they did so regularly, that their feet had worn a path in
the grass. But for some reason Katy found a great fascination in the
little house. She liked to dodge about the door, always holding herself
ready to turn and run in case the old woman rushed out upon her with a
broomstick. One day she begged a large cabbage of Alexander, and rolled
it in at the door of the house. The old woman seemed to like it, and
after this Katy always stopped to speak when she went by. She even got
so far as to sit on the step and watch the old woman at work. There was
a sort of perilous pleasure in doing this. It was like sitting at the
entrance of a lion's cage, uncertain at what moment his Majesty might
take it into his head to give a spring and eat you up.

After this, Katy took a fancy to a couple of twin sisters, daughters of
a German jeweller. They were quite grown-up, and always wore dresses
exactly alike. Hardly any one could tell them apart. They spoke very
little English, and as Katy didn't know a word of German, their
intercourse was confined to smiles, and to the giving of bunches of
flowers, which Katy used to tie up and present to them whenever they
passed the gate. She was too shy to do more than just put the flowers in
their hands and run away; but the twins were evidently pleased, for one
day, when Clover happened to be looking out of the window, she saw them
open the gate, fasten a little parcel to a bush, and walk rapidly off.
Of course she called Katy at once, and the two children flew out to see
what the parcel was. It held a bonnet--a beautiful doll's bonnet of blue
silk, trimmed with artificial flowers; upon it was pinned a slip of
paper with these words, in an odd foreign hand:

"To the nice little girl who was so kindly to give us some flowers."

You can judge whether Katy and Clover were pleased or not.

This was when Katy was six years old. I can't begin to tell you how many
different friends she had set up since then. There was an ash-man, and a
steam-boat captain. There was Mrs. Sawyer's cook, a nice old woman, who
gave Katy lessons in cooking, and taught her to make soft custard and
sponge-cake. There was a bonnet-maker, pretty and dressy, whom, to Aunt
Izzie's great indignation, Katy persisted in calling "Cousin Estelle!"
There was a thief in the town-jail, under whose window Katy used to
stand, saying, "I'm so sorry, poor man!" and "have you got any little
girls like me?" in the most piteous way, The thief had a piece of string
which he let down from the window. Katy would tie rosebuds and cherries
to this string, and the thief would draw them up. It was so interesting
to do this, that Katy felt dreadfully when they carried the man off to
the State Prison. Then followed a short interval of Cornelia Perham, a
nice, good-natured girl, whose father was a fruit-merchant. I am afraid
Katy's liking for prunes and white grapes played a part in this
intimacy. It was splendid fun to go with Cornelia to her father's big
shop, and have whole boxes of raisins and drums of figs opened for their
amusement, and be allowed to ride up and down in the elevator as much as
they liked. But of all Katy's queer acquaintances, Mrs. Spenser, to whom
Aunt Izzie had alluded, was the queerest.

Mrs. Spenser was a mysterious lady whom nobody ever saw. Her husband was
a handsome, rather bad-looking man, who had come from parts unknown, and
rented a small house in Burnet. He didn't seem to have any particular
business, and was away from home a great deal. His wife was said to be
an invalid, and people, when they spoke of him, shook their heads and
wondered how the poor woman got on all alone in the house, while her
husband was absent.

Of course Katy was too young to understand these whispers, or the
reasons why people were not disposed to think well of Mr. Spenser. The
romance of the closed door and the lady whom nobody saw, interested her
very much. She used to stop and stare at the windows, and wonder what
was going on inside, till at last it seemed as if she _must_ know. So,
one day she took some flowers and Victoria, her favorite doll, and
boldly marched into the Spensers' yard.

She tapped at the front door, but nobody answered. Then she tapped
again. Still nobody answered. She tried the door. It was locked. So
shouldering Victoria, she trudged round to the back of the house. As she
passed the side-door she saw that it was open a little way. She knocked
for the third time, and as no one came, she went in, and passing through
the little hall, began to tap at all the inside doors.

There seemed to be no people in the house, Katy peeped into the kitchen
first. It was bare and forlorn. All sorts of dishes were standing about.
There was no fire in the stove. The parlor was not much better. Mr.
Spenser's boots lay in the middle of the floor. There were dirty glasses
on the table. On the mantel-piece was a platter with bones of meat upon
it. Dust lay thick over everything, and the whole house looked as if it
hadn't been lived in for at least a year.

Katy tried several other doors, all of which were locked, and then she
went up stairs. As she stood on the top step, grasping her flowers, and
a little doubtful what to do next, a feeble voice from a bed-room
called out:

"Who is there?"

This was Mrs. Spenser. She was lying on her bed, which was very tossed
and tumbled, as if it hadn't been made up that morning. The room was as
disorderly and dirty as all the rest of the house, and Mrs. Spenser's
wrapper and night-cap were by no means clean, but her face was sweet,
and she had beautiful curling hair, which fell over the pillow. She was
evidently very sick, and altogether Katy felt sorrier for her than she
had ever done for anybody in her life.

"Who are you, child?" asked Mrs. Spenser.

"I'm Dr. Carr's little girl," answered Katy, going straight up to the
bed. "I came to bring you some flowers." And she laid the bouquet on the
dirty sheet.

Mrs. Spenser seemed to like the flowers. She took them up and smelled
them for a long time, without speaking.

"But how did you get in?" she said at last.

"The door was open," faltered Katy, who was beginning to feel scared at
her own daring, "and they said you were sick, so I thought perhaps you
would like me to come and see you."

"You are a kind little girl," said Mrs. Spenser, and gave her a kiss.

After this Katy used to go every day. Sometimes Mrs. Spenser would be up
and moving feebly about; but more often she was in bed, and Katy would
sit beside her. The house never looked a bit better than it did that
first day, but after a while Katy used to brush Mrs. Spenser's hair, and
wash her face with the corner of a towel.

I think her visits were a comfort to the poor lady, who was very ill and
lonely. Sometimes, when she felt pretty well, she would tell Katy
stories about the time when she was a little girl and lived at home with
her father and mother. But she never spoke of Mr. Spenser, and Katy
never saw him except once, when she was so frightened that for several
days she dared not go near the house. At last Cecy reported that she had
seen him go off in the stage with his carpet-bag, so Katy ventured in
again. Mrs. Spenser cried when she saw her.

"I thought you were never coming any more," she said.

Katy was touched and flattered at having been missed, and after that she

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