sweet sometimes; but
as I recall my little days, it does seem to me as if I was always,
always snubbing that precious child. When she was out of sight, I
dived head first into the hay, and tried for as much as ten minutes to
hate my mother. After a long season of sulks, such as it is to be
hoped none of _you_ ever indulged in, I stole back to the house
through the shed, and Ruth, who did not know what had broken my heart,
exclaimed,--

"Why, Maggie, what ails you? You've fairly cried your eyes out,
child!"

I climbed a chair, and looked in the glass, which hung between the
kitchen windows, and sure enough I was a sight to behold. My eyes,
always very large, were now red and swollen, and seemed bursting from
their sockets. I had never thought before that eyes could burst; but
now I ran to Ruthie in alarm.

"I _have_ cried my eyes out! O, Ruthie, I've _started_ 'em!"

She laughed at my distress, kissed me, and set me at ease about my
eyeballs; but the parasol was denied me, and I was sure that, blind or
not, I could never be happy without it.

The little bits of girls had afternoon parties that summer; it was
quite the fashion; and not long after this Madam Allen made one for
Fel. Everybody said it was the nicest party we had had; for Tempy Ann
made sailor-boy doughnuts, with sugar sprinkled on, and damson tarts,
and lemonade, to say nothing of "sandiges," with chicken in the
middle. I loved Fel dearly, I know I did; but by fits and starts I was
so full of envy that I had to go off by myself and pout.

"A party and a pairsol the same year! And Fel never 'spected the
pairsol, and didn't ask real hard for the party. But that was always
the way; her mamma wanted her to have good times, and so did Tempy
Ann. _Some_ folks' mammas didn't care!"

I was willing nice things should fall to Fel's lot; but I wanted just
as nice ones myself.

Fel showed the girls her "pairsol," and they all said they meant to
have one too; all but me; I could only stand and look on, with my
eyeballs just ready to pop out of my head.

I remember what sick dolls we had that afternoon; and when any of
them died, the live dolls followed them to the grave with weeping and
wailing, and their wee handkerchiefs so full of grief that you could
trace the procession by the tears that dripped upon the carpet. Yes;
but the mourners all had the cunningest little "pairsols" of
nasturtium leaves. There wasn't a "single one doll" that marched
without a pa