XI.
MAYBEE’S REBELLION.
“O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is thine help.”
Maybee waked up out of sorts. Nothing went right. Her berries were sour, her fritters “wrinkly,” her egg-toast “smushy.”
After breakfast she went out to play, and in half an hour had contrived to break one of Sue’s croquet-mallets, lose Tod’s ball, left by mistake in her pocket, and upset the board on which Bridget was drying sweet corn. She came in, hot and tired, and crosser than ever.
“Untie my bonnet, quick!” was the first thing mamma heard.
“How do little girls ask?” she inquired.
“I don’t care! I want it off, quick; it’s hot, and Bridget tied it so hard I’m most choked.”
“Well, say ‘Please,’ and mamma will try to make her little girl more comfortable.”
“Oh dear! I always have to do something horrid. I’ll untie it my own self,” whined Maybee, tugging at the strings of her big shaker till she had drawn them into the tightest of hard knots; then she picked and twisted and pulled, but the depraved sun-bonnet only screwed around against her nose, or tilted up till it really threatened to strangle her. So at last she sat still on the hassock, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, tears and perspiration making grimy furrows over her cheeks, the poor shaker bent into a triangle, from the apex of which looked out two defiant black eyes.