Little Mr. Thimblefinger and His Queer Country

by Joel Chandler Harris

And to each one she replied:—

“Reser, roser, rise!
And rib and rub your eyes!”

Sweetest Susan was not at all alarmed. She felt as if she had been expecting something of the kind. The Dolls arose and ranged themselves in front of the fireplace—all except the Rag Doll.

“Where’s Rag-Tag?” inquired the little old woman anxiously.

“Here I am, Granny!” replied the Rag Doll. “I’m lame in one leg and I can’t walk with the other, and my arm’s out of joint.”

“Tut! tut!” said the little old woman. “How can you be lame in your legs when there’s no bone in them? How can your arm be out of joint when there’s no joint? Get up!”

Rag-Tag rolled out of the corner and tumbled across the floor, heels over head.

“Now, then,” said the little old woman, opening her satchel, “what can I do for you?”

“She’s pulled all my hair out!” whispered the China Doll.

“She’s mashed my nose flat!” cried the Jip-jap Doll.