"Pooh!" returned Charlie with supreme disdain.
So she lighted her fire. The twigs crackled and blazed, and the flame ran along on the ground.
"Isn't it splendid!" she exclaimed, "Why, it's almost like fireworks! Oh, see, Kit! that dead tree has caught. We'll have a gay old time now."
Alas! Charlie's "gay old time" came to an ignoble end. Some one rushed through the woods shouting,—
"Hillo! What the mischief are you at? Don't you know any better than to be setting the woods on fire?"
It was Mr. Trumbull, looking angry enough. He bent the burning tree over, and stamped out the blaze; then poked the fire apart, and crushed the burning fragments into the soft ground. A dense smoke filled the little nook.
"Whose work is this? You youngsters deserve a good thrashing, and I've half a mind to take your hide off."
With that he caught Kit by the arm.
"He didn't do it," spoke up courageous Charlie. "He never brought a leaf nor a stick; and you sha'n't thrash him!"