Mamma and auntie were sitting on the piazza under the vines, with their embroidery, and Cricket found Eunice there, also, comfortably settled in the broad Mexican hammock.
“Come here, Cricket,” Eunice called, “for mamma is going to tell us stories.”
“Goody!” cried Cricket, skipping up joyfully, in spite of her stiff knee.
Was there ever a child to whom mamma’s stories were not a mine of delight?
“Curl up in the other hammock, pet,” said mamma, “and rest while we talk. You don’t look like my Cricket, yet.”
Cricket stopped to give mamma one of her bear-squeezes,—for she looked so cool and sweet and pretty to her little girl, as she sat in her low chair,—and then she climbed into another hammock, and settled herself comfortably to listen.
“What shall I tell you about?” asked mamma, ready to begin. “I think I’ve told you every single thing I ever did, when I was a little girl.”
“Tell us anything,” said the children, in chorus. “Never mind if you have told it before.”
“Let me see. Did I ever tell you about my first lie? Indeed, my only one, for that matter.”
“Why, mamma!” cried Cricket, in great surprise. “Did you ever tell a story? I didn’t know that little girls ever used to do that. I thought they were all so good.”