in children's grievances could easily see what
the matter was,--she was turning a sheet! Perhaps, happy young female
reader, you don't know what that is,--most likely not; for in these
degenerate days the strait and narrow ways of self-denial, formerly
thought so wholesome for little feet, are quite grass-grown with
neglect. Childhood nowadays is unceasingly feted and caressed, the
principal difficulty of the grown people seeming to be to discover what
the little dears want,--a thing not always clear to the little dears
themselves. But in old times, turning sheets was thought a most especial
and wholesome discipline for young girls; in the first place, because it
took off the hands of their betters a very uninteresting and monotonous
labor; and in the second place, because it was such a long, straight,
unending turnpike, that the youthful travelers, once started thereupon,
could go on indefinitely, without requiring guidance and direction of
their elders. For these reasons, also, the task was held in special
detestation by children in direct proportion to their amount of life,
and their ingenuity and love of variety. A dull child took it tolerably
well; but to a lively, energetic one, it was a perfect torture.

"I don't see the use of sewing up sheets one side, and ripping up the
other," at last said Sally, breaking the monotonous tick-tock of the
clock by an observation which has probably occurred to every child in
similar circumstances.

"Sally Kittridge, if you say another word about that ar sheet, I'll whip
you," was the very explicit rejoinder; and there was a snap of Mrs.
Kittridge's black eyes, that seemed to make it likely that she would
keep her word. It was answered by another snap from the six-year-old
eyes, as Sally comforted herself with thinking that when she was a woman
she'd speak her mind out in pay for all this.

At this moment a burst of silvery child-laughter rang out, and there
appeared in the doorway, illuminated by the afternoon sunbeams, the
vision of Miss Roxy's tall, lank figure, with the little golden-haired,
blue-robed fairy, hanging like a gay butterfly upon the tip of a
thorn-bush. Sally dropped the sheet and clapped her hands, unnoticed by
her mother, who rose to pay her respects to the "cunning woman" of the
neighborhood.

"Well, now, Miss Roxy, I was 'mazin' afraid you wer'n't a-comin'. I'd
just been an' got my silk ripped up, and didn't know how to get a step
farther without you."