"WHAT'S that thing?" said Lucie—"that's not my pocket-handkin?"
"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a little scarlet waist-coat belonging to
Cock Robin!"
And she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side.
THEN she took something else off a clothes-horse—"That isn't my pinny?" said Lucie.
"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a damask table-cloth belonging to Jenny Wren; look how it's stained with currant wine! It's very bad to wash!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE'S nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and she fetched another hot iron from the fire.
"THERE'S one of my pocket-handkins!" cried Lucie—"and there's my pinny!"
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle ironed it, and goffered it, and shook out the frills.
"Oh that IS lovely!" said Lucie.
"AND what are those long yellow things with fingers like gloves?"