e must keep
that little head of hers straight."

His tone was firm; he hoped to awe her into quietness. Flyaway was
frightened, and clung to Prudy for protection. "Don't the gemplum love
little gee--urls?" said she, in a voice as low and sad as a dying
dove's.

Mr. Poindexter laughed, and stroked the beautiful floss lovingly.

"Just turn your sweet little face this way, dear child; that's all."

"O, my shole! Must I turn my face to my back!" said Flyaway,
bewildered.

"No, no; look at this picture on the wall. See what it is, so you can
tell your mother."

"It's a bridge, and a man, and a fish," said Flyaway, flashing a
glance at it.

"There, smooth your forehead; now you will do." And so she did, for
two seconds, till she began to squint, to see whether it was a fish or
a dog; and that picture was spoiled.

Next time she tried so very hard to sit still that she swayed to and
fro like a slender-stemmed flower when the wind goes over it. The
picture was blurred.

"O, Fly, you must keep your shoulders still," said Prudy, looking as
anxious as the old woman in the shoe.

"I didn't never want to come here," said the child; "when I sit so
still, Prudy, it 'most gives me a pain."

"But you haven't sat still yet, not a minute."

"I could, you know, Prudy, _or nelse_ I didn't have to breeve,"
groaned Flyaway, lifting her eyebrows.

"Another one spoiled," said the artist, trying to smile.

"Yes," said Dotty, who felt none of the care. "Once it was her head,
and then it was her shoulders; and now her eyebrows are all of a
quirk."

Poor little Flyaway felt as much out of place as a grape-vine would
feel, if it had to make believe it was a pine tree.

"Wisht I'd said 'no,' 'stead o' 'yes,'" murmured she, puckering her
mouth to the size of a very small button-hole.

"This will never do," said the patient artist, almost in despair.
"Hold your little chin up, there's a lady. Don't put it in your neck.
Now! Ready!"

But at the critical moment there was a jerk, and Flyaway cried out,--

"I've got a sneeze; but, O, dear, I can't sneeze it."

"Why, where's that head of yours, little Tot? I declare, I believe it
goes on wires, like a jumping-jack."

"My head's wrong side up," said Flyaway, mournfully; "my mother said
it was."

Mr. Poindexter laughed: it was impossible to be vexed with such a
gentle child as Flyaway. "Really, my young friends," said he, rubbing
his stained fingers through his hair, "I believe