things. She was very, very trying, especially on one occasion I
will tell you about.

Roberta gathered the children together, took her Catechism and primer,
and went down to the summer-house. She noticed that Polly's expression was
sulky, and that she was rolling her eyes at Dilsy. But Polly was always
tormenting Dilsy. Dilsy was a little hunchback negro, that everybody but
Polly felt sorry for and tried to turn the soft side of life to.

Roberta was not much discouraged by Polly's actions, still she knew it was
a great deal pleasanter to teach her when she was in a good humor, and
concluded to resort to a strategy to mollify her.

The child was a close observer of nature, and knew how indispensable to
germinate seed was a mellow, rightly prepared soil, and what service
sunshine and timely rainfalls were to growing crops. So she intuitively
drew an analogy in her childish way between the soil the plow-man turns
over and the human heart.

Now, if there was one thing that Polly delighted in more than another it
was the game of "Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow."

So the children joined hands and moved around and around in a circle,
singing:

"Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow,
Went to the well to wash my toe,
When I got back my chickens was gone.
What o'clock is it, old Buzzard?"

Then they would fly around looking for the chickens. At least all of them
but Polly would. Polly always took the part of old Buzzard, so she could
flop down in Dilsy's seat, although she knew she would have to get right
up.

Somehow, that evening Roberta's strategy did not seem to have accomplished
its object, judging from Polly's expression. Still she hoped for the best.
Polly was the biggest, so she always begun with her.

"Who made you, Polly?"

No answer immediately; then,

"Dunno fur sarten, spec' 't wuz Gord."

A lump gathered in the child's throat. Her bump of reverence was so
largely developed it distressed her to see a want of it in others; she
said "it hurt her feelings."

She passed it by, however, and ventured on another.

"What else did God make?"

"Dunno fur sarten, never seed 'im wuken'."

"For shame, Polly! God made all things. Say 'God made all things.'"

"No, never. Never made Dilsy thar. Dilsy nuffin' but er scrap he throw'd
erway when he got fru cutten' out de grow'd-up ones."

"For shame, Polly! Don't you know everybody has to be little and grow up."

"No, never! Adam and Eve