A little girl with exceedingly blonde curls, pink cheeks and blue eyes, a plump and pretty little face, whispered:
“Would you like to see the sampler I am working? It is very sweet—three rules for a good girl, the digits, the letters, and a rose.”
“Don’t boast, Matty,” chided Deborah.
“It isn’t boasting to say what it looks like,” retorted Rose, who began to dislike Deborah.
“Oh, but I’m sure Deborah is right,” Matty whispered again. “She is a superior child, every one says so.”
At this moment Ruth and Peter burst out into a hearty laugh. All the grave childish faces turned to them, and many a small hand in the act of conveying a delicious morsel of cake to a waiting mouth, paused midway.
“And then Windy Bob gave a yell you could hear half a mile,” Ruth was saying, “and got out his knife and started to cut the rope. But Rickety Bob just needed that little minute to get ahead—and WIN!” She ended with a shout.
“What is she talking about?” asked Matty, interestedly.
“I guess she’s telling about the race between Windy Bob and Rickety Bob, the two oldest cowpunchers in Wyoming,” said Rose. “It was a corking race, all right.”
“Listen to this,” Peter was saying. “Did you ever hear anything so amusing! Couldn’t we all go out there some time?”