“I believe I could do that,” Chicken Little remarked complacently.
“You’d better not try, Miss Meddlesome Matty,” ejaculated Ernest sharply. “Don’t you ever let me catch you touching it!”
The child looked rebellious but her father added sternly:
“Ernest is quite right, little daughter, you must never under any circumstances try to handle this gun—but I have something for you that will keep you busy. No,” as she jumped up eagerly, “you must wait till the last this time.”
“I just can’t wait much longer, Father. I’m all going round inside. Please hurry!”
But for some reason her father wouldn’t hurry. He brought out two gay Navajo blankets for Mrs. Morton and Marian and a wonderful Mexican bridle for Frank.
“You’ll have plenty of use for it on the ranch. You’ll be in the saddle half your time I fancy,” he told the latter.
He even unwrapped a little Indian basket, which he asked Mrs. Morton to send to Alice. Still there was nothing for Chicken Little. She hung on the arm of his chair and fidgeted. Finally, he looked round at her quizzically:
“Why, my parcels are all gone and there doesn’t seem to be anything for you. Dear me, did I forget it?”
Just then Ernest got up and went out into the hall, coming back presently, leaving the door open behind him. In spite of themselves the family all looked toward the door. Chicken Little looked too, but saw nothing. A moment later the queerest voice called: