he odds and ends the
girls had brought in, Ruth Elliot had rejected nothing, not even the
polka-dotted orange print in which Mrs. Jones delighted to array her
baby or the gorgeous green-and-red gingham of Nellie Dimock's new apron.

It took two long afternoons of close work for the girls (not one of whom
had ever quilted before) to accomplish this task; but they did it
bravely and cheerfully. There were pricked fingers and tired arms and
cramped feet, and the big dictionary that raised Nellie Dimock to a
level with her taller companions must have proved any thing but an easy
seat; but no one complained.

Let us look in upon the Patchwork Quilt Society toward the close of this
last afternoon.

"I was sewing on this very block," Mollie Elliot is saying, leaning back
in her chair to survey her work, "when Aunt Ruth was telling us how
Captain Bobtail's Brownie brought Tufty home.

"That pink-and-gray block over there in the corner," said Fannie
Eldridge, pointing with her needle, "was the first one I sewed on. I
made awful work with it, too; for when Dinah Diamond set herself on
fire with the kerosene lamp I forgot what I was about, and took ever so
many long puckery stitches that had to be picked out,"

"If I should sleep under that bed-quilt," said Sammy Ray (Sammy and Roy
had been invited to attend this last meeting of the Society), "what do
you suppose I should dream about?"

No one could imagine.

"A white horse and a yellow dog," the boy said, "'cause I liked those
stories best."

"Yes," said Mollie; "and of course Nellie Dimock would dream about cats,
wouldn't you, Nell? and Roy Tyler about moths and butterflies, and
Florence Austin about birds, and I--well, I should dream of all the
beasts and the birds Aunt Ruth has told us about, all jumbled up
together."

"I shall always remember one thing," Nellie Dimock said, "when I think
about our quilt."

"What is that, Nellie?"

"Not to step on an ant-hill if I can possibly help it, because it blocks
up the street, and the little people have to work so hard to cart away
the dirt."

"I ain't half so afraid of worms as I used to be," Eliza Ann Jones
announced, "since I've found out what funny things they can do; and next
summer I'm going to make some butterflies out of fennel-worms,"

"Roy says," Sammy began, and stopped; for Roy was making forcible
objections to the disclosure.

"Well, what does Roy say?" Miss Ruth asked, knowing nothing of the kicks
admi