PEE TIEAN SY SGA KE,

‘¢ Tf thou, my dear, a winner be,
At trundling of the ball,

The wager thou shalt have, and me,
And my misfortunes all.”

“ All right,” she laughed ; “I will worst you at the game as soon as ever the
cake be fried; ” and she ran toward the kitchen, almost stumbling over her long
frock, in her haste.

One side of the kitchen was in a blaze, with the broad chimney fire. Phoebe’s
aunt stood at a table, rubbing with lard the bright red and yellow colored eggs
she had just dipped from the dye-pot. There were dozens of them; and she
piled them deftly, alternating the colors, till they formed a pyramid.

“Whee!” cried Phoebe, who had never seen so many before, “but they are
as many and gay as the buttercups and portulacas in mother’s posy bed. How
can we eat so many?”

“ Wait and see,” said her aunt, with a knowing smile. “Roll up your sleeve,
and let me see if your arm looks strong enough for stirring the big tansy cake.”

Phoebe pushed up her sleeve, and displayed a white, plump little arm,
finished off with a firm little hand, that would make a fine “ cake-spad.”

“That be very fair,” said her aunt; “now tie on this pinafore, sit you down
here, and take this bowl firm into your lap.”

Phoebe did so, with a bustle of importance.

“ Next is the creaming of the butter and sugar. Stir well, and all one way.”

Phoebe did so, setting her small teeth upon her under lip till it was crimson
dented, and her arm ached.

“Now, we have the eggs beat to a yellow froth, the cream and spinach
leaves, with this allowance of flour.” And the aunt put them in one by one as
she spoke, while Phoebe’s plump arm and hand went round faster and faster in
the mixture, as her cheeks grew pinker, and her breath came in short pufts.

“Not so bad at the stirring, be she, mother, for a wisp of a girl?” said Robin,
who had stolen into the kitchen so quietly that Phoebe had not noticed him.

“ Here!” she exclaimed, raising her hand, covered with dough, “I see no
great difference ’twixt a wisp of a girl and a wisp of a boy.”

“ Hush! children, you must not quarrel at Easter-tide; all is peace and good-
will, like at Christmas; ” and Phoebe’s aunt lifted the bowl to the table.

“Does it be fried next, Aunt Nancy?” asked Phoebe, with much interest ;
“at home the serving-people be so plenty, and older sisters so about, that I can
never get to see how a thing be done. I hope father will not fetch me from
this Easter visit too soon.”

“No; we will not let him;” and the aunt set the butter to melting and put
the cake to fry, while Phoebe pattered back and forth after her, over the big
kitchen’s stone floor, her little chin in the air and her neck stretched, to lose no
point in this frying process.