BABY-BIRDS. 175

“ ghack-knife.” She liked to do something that she had seen
Bab do. And Bab had “ gone mining,” away in Arizona.

“T s’pose you ’d zhust as lief Id dig you winter coal, you
know,” Pudge had said, placidly, appearing at the parlor door
with the hatchet across one shoulder. If Pudge’s mother
sighed inwardly, she smiled outwardly, and nodded.

“ With the blue check. Yes.”

So Pudge, in the “ blue check,” — that was a great apron
large enough to hold two of her,—on top of her coal-heap,
was just about dirty enough to be happy, as I said.

Once in a while her mother looked out of the window and
nodded merrily at her.

The sun was shooting little gold arrows at her. Pudge
thought that they were all tipped with green feathers. But
that must have been because the green leaves danced so that
you could n’t tell where the sunshine ended and the trees
began.

The sky was very blue, and it winked at her. The coal-
heap shone all over, and laughed at her. The tall grass lifted
little tasselled caps and bowed to her. And a little bird came
and sat on the wall and sang to her.

At least, Pudge thought so. So she lay back on the coal-
heap and dodged the green feathered arrows, and winked the
sky out of countenance, and kicked the coal-heap till it
stopped laughing at her, and cut the acquaintance of all the
polite young grasses, and shut her eyes and listened to the
little bird.

sil