he bluebird, 'ef you see a bummelybee, don't you let
nobody take his honey from him, fur he's a pertickeler fren' of mine.'
He was sorter shamed to let on to the squirl how nigh chawmed he was.

"'I promise, cross my heart,' says the squirl, and Mr. Bluebird flown
off.

"Aftern awhile, up flown Mr. Bummely, and smack behind him comes a
little boy layin' out to git his honey.

"Mr. Bummely he flown along and went to hide hissef in a big flower.
That's jess what the boy wanted. 'Now I've got yuh,' says he, but he was
too forward, fur the squirl clim' down the tree and popped onto the
boy's haid jess ez he was gwine to take off his hat to ketch Mr.
Bummely, and Mr. Bummely he flown off, and Mr. Squirl he laugh, and Mr.
Boy he got mad, and made tracks fur home, and that's all."

The girls laughed, and hearing Sylvy call her, Bubbles went out.

"Isn't she funny?" said Florence. "I never could have made up a story
like that, could you, Dimple?"

"No," said Dimple, "she tells me the funniest ones sometimes, so mixed
up, and I laugh till I can scarcely speak, and she sings the most
absurd songs; she gets the words all twisted, she has no idea what they
mean. Oh! Florence, I do believe there is a bat in the hall. I hope to
goodness it won't come in here."

Florence screamed and hid her head under the piano, while Dimple took
refuge in the same place, and called loudly for Bubbles, who came
running in with Sylvy after her.

"What's de matter? Where are yuh?" they cried.

"Oh, a bat! a bat!" shrieked Florence, as the creature came swooping in
from the hall, beating its wings against the wall.

Sylvy, armed with a broom, and Bubbles, with a duster, soon put an end
to the poor bat, and the girls came out from their hiding-place.

"I suppose it is silly to be afraid of them, but they nearly frighten me
to death," said Dimple.

"So they do me," Florence said, "and spiders too. Ugh! it makes cold
chills run down my back to think of one; let's go to bed, Dimple. We can
undress anyhow, and sit in our nightgowns and talk, if we want to."

This Dimple agreed to, and they went upstairs to their rooms to find on
the bureau two little white paper packages addressed to "Miss Florence
Graham," and "Miss Eleanor Dallas."

"Papa did it," said Dimple, "it is just like him; let's see what is
inside. No, we'll guess. I say chocolates."

"I say burnt almonds: no, marshmallows," said Florence, giving her
package a little squeeze. "Ma