"Wait a minute, Dear Doll Dainty," squeaked the rabbits that were capering around the top of the wall; "we're coming too." And with a great scurry, down slid the bunnies. "We're tired of trying to make a cross little girl happy."

"So are we," added the roses on the curtains sweetly, as they let themselves down by their thorns and walked to the door on their stems.

"And we." The pillows Mollie's impatient little fists had punched dropped to the floor and started off.

The trunk slammed down its lid and followed the pillows, the bureau followed the trunk, the book Mollie had thrown on the floor followed the bureau.

"Pardon me," said a deep voice, "but I am tired of being sat on and having heels dug into me!" Up went the couch. b.u.mp! went Mollie on the floor.

The couch walked clumsily to the door. It couldn't get through.

"Tee-hee-hee!" giggled Mollie. The Pouts took to their heels.

"Tee-hee--"

Mollie stopped laughing and looked around in amazement. Everything in the room was just as it ought to be, except that she and Dear Doll Dainty were both on the floor.

But Mollie thought the rabbits winked at her as she laid Dear Doll Dainty gently on the couch and put the book in its place on the table.

INDIAN HUGHIE

Hughie had always wanted to be an Indian. One day he told his mamma about it.

"Well," she said, "why not _be_ an Indian?"

Hughie looked down at his little blue suit and his low shoes. "I can't be an Indian," he said. "I haven't any bow and arrow 'r--'r anything Indians have. And anyway, little boys can't be Indians."

"Oh, yes, they can," said his mamma. "Indians are strong and brave. Any little boy can be that. How do you do, Chief Hughie?" she added, with a low bow.

Hughie drew himself up until he was at least an inch taller. "Heap--heap strong and brave, thank you," he said gravely.

That very day Hughie's mamma bought him a bow and arrow. Then Hughie felt himself a real Indian indeed.

But Chief Hughie grew tired of shooting at a mark with his new bow and arrow.

It would be much more fun, he thought, to shoot at something that moved.

Just as he thought that, a bird flew up from the s...o...b..ll bush. Chief Hughie hastily slipped an arrow into his bow. Bing! it went, toward the bird.

"Hughie!"

Hughie turned around. "Chief Hughie," he corrected, politely.

"No," said his mamma, "_not_ Chief Hughie. Squaw Hughie! Chiefs are strong and brave. Chief Hughie would never shoot at a dear little bird.

Only a cowardly Indian, a squaw Indian, would do that."

She came down the path and took away Hughie's bow and arrow.

"Squaws don't carry weapons," she said.

Hughie threw himself down on his stomach and screamed with anger.

"Squaws cry," said his mamma.

She walked back to the house, leaving Hughie sitting on the gra.s.s. He was wondering how long it would take for a squaw to become a chief once more.

"I FORGOT"

Inside of little Jean there lived a naughty imp. His name was "I Forgot." One time this imp made Jean do a very wicked thing.

Jean owned a canary, named Goldie because of his golden feathers.

Whenever Jean came into the room where his cage hung, Goldie would pour out a flood of song.

But one morning when Jean came in there was no flood of song from the yellow throat. The tiny singer lay still on the bottom of his cage. Jean slipped in her hand in alarm and drew out her little pet.

"Mamma, mamma," she cried, "something's the matter with Goldie!"

The imp "I Forgot" laughed as he heard her, but Jean's mamma did not laugh. She knew about "I Forgot," and she laid her hand tenderly on Goldie's little body, all thin under the fluff of feathers.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Jean slipped her hand into the cage and drew out Goldie]

"Goldie has starved to death, Jean," she said sadly. "Why didn't you feed him?"

"I f-forgot!" sobbed the little girl.

"Forgot! Poor Goldie!" Jean's mamma stroked the golden feathers. "It's too bad, Jean, that you couldn't remember to do that one small thing for Goldie when he did so much for you, with his songs and his cheer."

Jean's tears fell fast. Her mamma looked thoughtfully at the bird. "We can do nothing more for Goldie," she said at last, "but I have thought of a way you can help other birds for his sake, Jean."

Jean wiped her eyes. "How?" she asked.

Jean felt happier when her mamma had explained the way to her.

And if you should pa.s.s Jean's house some morning before breakfast, you could see the way for yourself. For every day Jean scatters crumbs and grain on the lawn for the birds and puts fresh water in their drinking bowl.

"For Goldie's sake," she whispers to herself, as the birds fly down for their breakfast.

As for the naughty imp "I Forgot," he is fast turning into the lovely fairy "I Remember."