it. We thought he was going to carry the dog off to some place, and
take care of him like he was his master, or may be shut him up, or
something that way; but, do you believe, he just _shot_ that dog right
in the yard!"

"How dreadful!"

"Yes, auntie, I reckon it was! We all cried like we should kill
ourselves, and put our fingers in our ears; for we heard the man when
he fired the gun,--I mean we heard the gun when the man fired it,--and
_then_ it was of no use; but we stopped our ears, and Miss All'n hid
her face, and cried--and cried--and cried!"

"O dear me, it did seem like we didn't any of us want to go to school
any more, if we couldn't see our old dog coming to meet us, and rub
his head against our dresses. And it was just as lonesome,--now it was
_so_, auntie."

"Poor old doggie!" sighed aunt Madge.

"It wasn't you, was it, Pincher," cried Horace, seizing his dog by
both ears. "I reckon if they tried to shoot you they'd catch it."

"Now, Susy, it's your turn," said Grace.

"No, Horace's; he's the oldest."

"Pshaw!" returned Horace, who had been the very first one to propose
stories, "I'd like to get shut of it. Pshaw! I can't think of
nothin'."

"But you must, you know, Horace; so it's no use to grumble."

"O shucks! Has it got to be true?"

"Don't say 'shucks,' Horace," said Grace, gently. "You can tell a true
story, or make it up as you go along.--Come, hurry."

"I know what _I'm_ goin' to tell," whispered Prudy to Horace.

"Well," said the boy, thinking a moment, "I'll tell my story double
quick, and be done with it."

"You'd ought to see my pa's horse out West, auntie; there ain't a
Yankee horse can hold a candle to him; I'll leave it to Pincher. His
name is Sancho, and my ma sends him to market mornings, early, with
the basket, and puts some money in, and a note to the butcher, and
that horse comes back, sir, just as fast as he can trot, sir, and he
has the meat there all wrapped up, and just has the basket in his
teeth, this way."

"Why, Horace Clifford!" cried Grace, in surprise; "why, what a story!"

"Of course it's a story. You wanted me to tell a story, didn't you? I
was just a-blowin'."

"Well, there, tell something nice, can't you, please?"

"I've told all the story I'm a-goin' to," said Horace, firmly. "Now
it's Susy's turn."

"You talk about something else a while," replied Susy, "and let me be
a-thinkin'."

"I'll tell one," cried Prudy, "let _me_, now."

"Once there