was. There's a little girl in this town looks jus' like me;
has hair jus' the same; same kind o' dress; lives right under the
meeting-house. Folks think it's me!"

Your grandma was distressed to have me look her straight in the face
and tell such a lie; but the more she said, "Why, Margaret!" the
deeper I went into particulars.

"Name's Jane Smif. Eats acorns; sleeps in a big hole. Didn't you never
hear about her, mamma?"

As I spoke, I could almost see Jane Smif creeping slyly out of the big
hole with mud on her apron. She was as real to me as some of the
little girls I met on the street; not the little girls I played with,
but those who "came from over the river."

My dear mother did not know what to do with a child that had such a
habit of making up stories; but my father said,--

"Totty-wax doesn't know any better."

Mother sighed, and answered, "But _Maria_ always knew better."

I knew there was "sumpin bad" about me, but thought it was like the
black on a negro's face, that wouldn't wash off. The idea of trying
to stop lying never entered my head. When mother took me out of the
closet, and asked, "Would I be a better girl?" I generally said, "Yes
um," very promptly, and cried behind my yellow hair; but that was only
because I was touched by the trembling of her voice, and vaguely
wished, for half a minute, that I hadn't made her so sorry; that was
all.

But when I told that amazing story about Jane Smif, in addition to
running away, mother whipped me for the first time in my life with a
birch switch.

"Margaret," said she, "if you ever tell another wrong story, I shall
whip you harder than this, you may depend upon it."

I was frightened into awful silence for a while, but soon forgot the
threat. I was careful to avoid the name of Jane Smif, but I very soon
went and told Ruphelle that my mamma had silk dresses, spangled with
stars; "kep' 'em locked into a trunk; did _her_ mamma have stars on
_her_ dresses?" Ruphelle looked as meek as a lamb, but her brother
Gust snapped his fingers, and said,--

"O, what a whopper!"

That is why I remember it, for Ruth heard him, and asked what kind of
a whopper I had been telling now, and reported it to mother.

Mother rose very sorrowfully from her chair, and bade me follow her
into the attic. I went with fear and trembling, for she had that
dreadful switch in her hand. Poor woman! She wished she had not
promised to use it again, for she began to think it was al