girls had
braids as well as I; but, alas! mine were not straight like theirs;
they quirled over at the end. I hated that curly kink; if it didn't go
off it would bring my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.

But, children, I fear some of the stories I told were crookeder
than even my braids. In the first place, I didn't know any better. I
told lies, to hear how funny they would sound. My imagination was
large, and my common sense small. I lived in a little world of my own,
and had very queer thoughts. Perhaps all children do; what think, Fly?
When I was lying in the cradle I found my hands one day, and I
shouldn't wonder if I thought they were two weeny babies come
visiting; what do you suppose? Of course I didn't know they belonged
to me, but I stared at them, and tried to talk. And from that time
until I was a great girl, as much as five years old, I was always
supposing things were "diffunt" from what they really were. I thought
our andirons were made of gold, just like the stars, only the andirons
had enough gold in them to sprinkle the whole sky, and leave a good
slice to make a new sun. When I saw a rainbow, I asked if it was "a
side-yalk for angels to yalk on?"

I thought the cat heard what I said when I talked to her, and if I
picked a flower I kissed it, for "mebbe" the flower liked to be
kissed.

I had a great deal of fun "making believe," all to myself. I made
believe my mamma had said I might go somewhere, and off I would go,
thinking, as I crept along by the fence, bent almost double for fear
of being seen, "_Prehaps_ she'll tie me to the bed-post for it."

And she always did.

I was the youngest of the family then, but I made believe I had once
had a sister Marjie, no bigger than my doll, and a naughty woman in a
green cloak came and carried her off in her pocket. I told my little
friend Ruphelle so much about this other Marjie that she believed in
her, and after a while I believed in her myself. We used to sit on
the hay and talk about her, and wonder if the naughty woman would ever
bring her back. We thought it would be nice to have her to play with.

This was not very wicked; it was only a fairy story. But the mischief
was, my dear mother did not know where to draw the line between fairy
stories and lies. Once I ran away, and Mrs. Gray told her she had seen
me playing on the meeting-house steps with Ann Smiley.

"No, mamma," said I, catching my breath, "'twasn't me Mis' Gray saw; I
know who 't