said our Aunt Esta. "Read your cards!"

We read our cards.

Carol's card said "PINK BREEZE" on it. And "SLIMY FROG."

Our Aunt Esta poked Carol twice with her wand. "Pitiful Wretch!" said
our Aunt Esta. "It is now two o'clock.--Unless you are back here exactly
at three o'clock--bearing a _Pink Breeze_ in your hands--you shall be
turned for all time and eternity into a _Slimy Green Frog_!--Go hence!"

Carol went hence. He henced as far as the Mulberry Tree on the front
lawn. He sat down on the grass with the card in his hand. He read the
card. And read it. And read it. It puzzled him very much.

"Pitiful Wretch, go _hence_!" cried our Aunt Esta.

He henced as far as the Larch Tree this time. And sat down all over
again. And puzzled. And puzzled.

"Go _hence_, I say, Pitiful Wretch!" insisted our Aunt Esta.

My Mother didn't like Carol to be called a "Pitiful Wretch."--It was
because he was dumb, I suppose. When my Mother doesn't like anything it
spots her cheek-bones quite red. Her cheek-bones were spotted very red.

"Stop your fussing!" said our Aunt Esta. "And attend to your own
business!"

My Mother attended to her own business. The business of her card said
"SILVER BIRD" and "HORSE'S HOOF."

Even our Aunt Esta looked a bit flabbergasted.

"Oh, dear--oh, dear," said our Aunt Esta. "I certainly am sorry that it
was you who happened to draw that one!--And all dressed up in white too
as you are! But after all--" she jerked with a great toss of her
scraggly wig, "a Game is a Game! And there can be no concessions!"

"No, of course not!" said my Mother. "Lead me to the Slaughter!"

"There is not necessarily any slaughter connected with it," said our
Aunt Esta very haughtily. But she hit my Mother only once with her wand.

"Frail Creature," she said. "On the topmost branch of the tallest tree
in the world there is a silver bird with a song in his throat that has
never been sung! Unless you bring me this bird _singing_ you are hereby
doomed to walk with the clatter of a Horse's Hoof!"

"Horse's Hoof?" gasped my Mother. "With the clatter of a Horse's Hoof?"

My Father was pretty mad. "Why, it's impossible!" he said. "She's as
light as Thistle-Down! Even in her boots it's like a Fairy passing!"

"Nevertheless," insisted our Aunt Esta. "She shall walk with the clatter
of a Horse's Hoof--unless she brings me the Silver Bird."

My Mother started at once for the Little Woods. "I can at least search
the Tallest