led, and what will I do?"

"Give me your hand," said Uncle John. "Do you see that skin? There is no
silk so fine as that. These chubby cheeks are covered with a skin that is
finer. But you have kept this skin puckered about your eyes and your
forehead and the corner of your mouth, you have kept it puckered and
wrinkled and krinkled as you say, till I am afraid it will never be
straight. I don't think a hot iron would smoothe it. Do you?"

Now Uncle John spoke very kindly, indeed. There were no wrinkles in his
voice. Some people have wrinkles in their words. But notwithstanding her
uncle's kindness, naughty little Tilda Tulip went off in a pout, and
declared that Uncle John was "real mean. He never feels sorry for a body
when they are in trouble." And so she wrinkled her voice into a whine,
and wrinkled and puckered her face up most frightfully.

At last, tired of teasing and talking and troubling, Tilda Tulip tumbled
into her trundle-bed and was tucked tightly in. Everybody was glad when
she went to sleep. Everybody dreaded the time when she should wake up.
She was a good girl when she was asleep.

She dreamed. It was a funny dream. I think she must have remembered what
Uncle John said, for she thought she saw a funny little old house, by a
funny little old hill, near a funny little old bridge. Out of this house
came a funny little old woman, with a funny little old bonnet, carrying a
funny little old bag on her back, and with a funny little old cane in her
hand. Her face was wrinkled and cross--wrinkled all over, and she stooped
dreadfully. But she tossed her funny little old bag on to the back of a
funny little old donkey, and climbed up herself. Then she was cross with
the funny little old bag, and mad with the funny little old donkey, and
she beat him with a funny little old stick, and scolded and scolded with
a funny little old cracked, quivering, peevish, hateful voice.

And so Tilda followed her as she rode, and all the rude boys along the
road cried out, "There goes the funny little old woman and her donkey!"
And a beautiful lady came along, and when she met the funny little old
woman, she sat down on a stone and wept, and said, "O Miriam, my
daughter!" But the funny little old woman only beat her donkey and
scolded more than ever. And Tilda wondered why the beautiful woman called
the funny little old woman her daughter. And Tilda dreamed that many days
passed, and that every day the funny little old woman ro