ed herself with looking admiringly at the
confiding, playful little Snoodle.

As she stood watching his pretty antics she became aware that the
Snimmy's wife had stopped her work and was watching them with a grim
smile. Sara saw that she had just unscrewed the knob of the prose-bush,
and was still holding the doorknob and the corkscrew in her hand. As
far as Sara could tell, the doorknob seemed as neatly hemmed as ever;
so, overcome by curiosity, she asked the Snimmy's wife what she was
going to do with it.

"This is the day to unhem it," she answered rather glumly. "I unhem it
every Pinkday, and hem it every Lilyday. I used to hem it only oncet a
month, but Avrillia said that wasn't civilized, and whatever she says,
goes. At least," she added, glancing up at the Plynck, who was still
circling beautifully around the fountain, "she thinks so. And as long
as I live neighbor to her it's sort-of up to me to respect her
standards."

Avrillia! Ah, now Sara remembered! She had meant to go straight to
find Pirlaps and Avrillia! She glanced around to see if she could find
the curly little path; but she could not really start until she had
asked a few questions about the darling little Snoodle.

"Is--isn't he lovely?" she began, aware of a vague necessity of
pleasing the wife of the Snimmy, if one wanted to find out anything.
However, she was quite honest; she really did think the Snoodle was
lovely--except for his drawback.

"You think so?" answered the Snimmy's wife, trying hard not to show
how foolishly pleased she really was. "He's the only child we have."

If Sara had thought a minute, she would not have asked the next
question--certainly not of so formidable a person as the Snimmy's
wife. But she didn't think. She just asked, eagerly,

"Is he a--a sort of--dog?"

"A sort of _dog_?" echoed the Snimmy's wife, in the most outraged
italics.

"A--kind of--puppy?"

"A kind of--PUPPY?" said the Snimmy's wife, in perfectly withering
small capitals. Then she said, in the loftiest large capitals Sara had
ever seen,

"HIS MOTHER WAS A SNAIL--SHE HELD THE WORLD'S RECORD FOR SLOWNESS. AND
HIS FATHER WAS A PEDIGREED NOODLE."

Sara looked at him in awe; now she understood the cap, and the prongs,
and the extreme length. But, in spite of the Snimmy's wife's indignant
mood, she had to ask one more question.

"But you said he was your child," was the way she put it.

"I didn't," retorted the Snimmy's wife, with undisguised