some moments been walking behind the pony unobserved.

"You're enough to frighten any one to death," she screamed, "creeping
about like a cat."

Susy had a foolish dread of being laughed at.

"Creeping like a cat," echoed Percy, "while you creep like a snail! What
will you take for your pony, that can fly in the air like a bird, but
can't walk on the ground any better than a goose?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Susy, quite excited: "if
you want to see anybody ride fast, just look here." And she started the
pony at full speed, regardless of Prudy, who was so frightened, that she
seized poor Wings by his flowing mane, and called out for her sister to
stop. But Susy dashed on at a flying pace, and Percy cried after her,
"O, Susy, cousin Susy, what think of your Christmas present? Will you
remember not to eat it, and not to hang it on a nail? Susy, Susy?"

There was hardly a happier child living than Susy, during those
delightful holidays. She said to herself, sometimes, that this was such
a beautiful world, she couldn't think of a single thing that wasn't as
splendid as it could be.

CHAPTER V.

PRUDY'S TROUBLE.

The happy days flew by. The Old Year was worn out, and the New Year
stepped in fresh and youthful. Susy found her little sleigh a very
comfortable affair; and so, I think, did "lame Jessie." When her father
found that Susy had really chosen for her pony the name of Wings, he
ordered a beautiful picture of the Flying Horse to be painted on the
dashboard of the sleigh.

Susy was delighted with this, and her vivid fancy took wings at once,
and flew away to the other end of the world, where her aunt Madge told
her the fountain of Pirene was said to gush out of a hill-side.

"Only think," said she to Flossy; "it was a woman once, that fountain
was; but she poured her life all out into tears, crying because her son
was killed. So the fountain is made of tears!"

"Bitter and salt, then," said Florence, threading her needle.

"No, indeed; just as sweet and nice as any water. Pegasus loved it; and
there was a beautiful young man, his name was Bel--Bel--well, I declare,
I've forgotten,--no, 'twas Bellerophon; and he had a bridle, and wanted
a horse. O, do you know this horse was white, with silvery wings, wild
as a hawk; and, once in a while, he would fold up his wings, and trot
round on the mountain!"

Florence yawned, and waxed her thread.

"O, it was a splendid bridle, this ma