“Oh, let it alone, if you love me, Weenie,” Mrs. Wise said. “I do want one daughter who won’t burn the jam, and seam up four sides of a pillow-case.”
“[Two authoresses are enough in the family.]”
“You don’t make fun of the others,” Weenie said pettishly; “why don’t you tell them to stop?”
“Their complaint has become chronic,” the doctor said, “but we should like to save you while there is time.”
[268]
]From the bottom of the garden came loud excited shouts and hurrahs.
“I do believe,” said Weenie, her face lighting up, her pen dropping from her hands—“I do believe Freddie’s got that snake at last,” and her long, black legs went flying down the orchard.
“Freddie, the physician, warranted to cure,” said the doctor.
Of course he had to read the forgotten result of so much pen-biting.
“The Rival Suitors,” by Wilhelmina Conway, said sprawling red letters at the top of a sheet of foolscap. Then just underneath—