The little old lady in the silk dress used to quake when I said these things. That was one of the reasons why she was teaching me my catechism at such an early age, and I could repeat some pretty hymns, too, which helped to comfort her. Always, no matter how extravagant the tale might be, she made her protest. She meant that, at least, there should be one strong hand to guide the child on the right road.
"That is not really so, Rhoda," she declared, in a severe voice. "You did not see an old woman with a red pepper in her mouth."
I looked at her with a pout.
"Well, I did see an old woman in a red cloak, grandma."
"No, you didn't see an old woman at all. Child, you have not been out of the house to-day!"
"I saw a dog with a red pepper in his mouth," I said, meekly.
"No, you did not even see a dog."
"Well, I saw my own red pepper!" I cried, breaking into sudden tears, for this was my last stronghold, and if the pepper was taken away all my charming fairy tale was gone.
"It's not a question of truth or untruth," my father said, tossing his head back as if he were displeased. "It was merely a story of adventure. Pray did you never meet any heroic beasts yourself in your own day?"