made more fun of it than
anybody else, but at heart she loved her hair, and would not have
exchanged it for paley-gold or ebony tresses. Bud had fastened his
chubby hands in it to steady himself on his perch, as she ran, and
pulled some of it loose from her comb. A thick curl strayed over her
arm, bare almost to the shoulder, as was the warm-weather custom of
young ladies of that time. She drew it around before her eyes, thinning
it into a silky veil, holding it high up and letting it slip, strand by
strand, between her and the light.

A notion--indefinable in words--that a wealth of charms was wasted upon
one observant little girl and a non-observant baby, led me to inquire:--

"Would you, sure enough, rather be out here than in the house, talking
to them all?"

"I am tired of 'them all,' Molly. They tire me to death."

"Some grown people are not tiresome," I essayed. "There's Mr. Frank
Morton, now. I _like_ him!"

"Oh, you do--do you? Why?" still shredding the veil of curls between her
and the sun.

"Well, one thing is, he talks _straight_. He doesn't talk 'round about,
and sideways, and crossways, to children. Nor make fun of my questions.
He just answers right along and plain."

"I don't think I quite know what you mean, Namesake."

"Why, you see it's this way,--the other day I asked him if he didn't
think you were a heap prettier than any other lady he ever saw, and he
never so much as cracked a smile. He just put his arm 'round me--he
never did that but twice before--and he said up-and-down, as serious as
anything--'Yes, I do, Molly!' And he does make the beautifullest
chinquapin whistles! They go on whistling after they are dry. You see,
the trouble with the whistles other people make for me, is that they
shrivel all up by next day, and there isn't a bit of whistle left in
them."

"That's the way with most of my whistles, too, Namesake. And then I
throw them away and want new ones. Heigh-ho! What's the use of a whistle
when all the whistle has gone out of it? I must ask Mr. Frank Morton how
he makes his."

I gave a jump and a little squeak.

"Oh, Cousin Molly Belle! there's a great, _big_ race-horse on you!"

He had tumbled out of the apple boughs upon the folds of her skirt and
before I could capture him, a second fell after him. I was upon my feet
in a twinkling, seized first one, then the other, by their attenuated
middles, and held them up, all kicking and sprawling, between a thumb
and finger