"Is it a rap at the door?"
"No, it is not knock."
"Is it a curious instrument that has hands, but no eyes or ears, and that always weighs its actions, but never does any thing but reprove other people's laziness?"
"No, it is not a clock."
"Is it that word, which followed by head, shows what we all are, for not guessing it sooner?"
"Yes, you are right, it is a block."
In the evening, Mary was appointed by general consent to tell that eagerly-desired Indian story.
"And mind you give us scalping enough," said Charlie Bolton; "I'm a little afraid you are too tender-hearted to give your story the proper dramatic effect. It's worth nothing unless there is a great deal of blood spilt, and a whole string of scalps."
"Horrible, Charlie! how can you bear such things! However, I needn't be afraid, if Cousin Mary is to tell the tale," said Amy.
"How can I possibly please the taste of both?" replied Mary; "I plainly see that only one way is left for me; to suit myself—so, if you'll excuse me, that's the thing I'll do."