This was not very wicked; it was only a fairy story. But the mischief was, my dear mother did not know where to draw the line between fairy stories and lies. Once I ran away, and Mrs. Gray told her she had seen me playing on the meeting-house steps with Ann Smiley.
"No, mamma," said I, catching my breath, "'twasn't me Mis' Gray saw; I know who 'twas. There's a little girl in this town looks jus' like me; has hair jus' the same; same kind o' dress; lives right under the meeting-house. Folks think it's me!"
Your grandma was distressed to have me look her straight in the face and tell such a lie; but the more she said, "Why, Margaret!" the deeper I went into particulars.
"Name's Jane Smif. Eats acorns; sleeps in a big hole. Didn't you never hear about her, mamma?"
As I spoke, I could almost see Jane Smif creeping slyly out of the big hole with mud on her apron. She was as real to me as some of the little girls I met on the street; not the little girls I played with, but those who "came from over the river."
My dear mother did not know what to do with a child that had such a habit of making up stories; but my father said,—
"Totty-wax doesn't know any better."
Mother sighed, and answered, "But Maria always knew better."
I knew there was "sumpin bad" about me, but thought it was like the black on a negro's face, that wouldn't wash off. The idea of trying to stop lying never entered my head. When mother took me out of the closet, and asked, "Would I be a better girl?" I generally said, "Yes um," very promptly, and cried behind my yellow hair; but that was only because I was touched by the trembling of her voice, and vaguely wished, for half a minute, that I hadn't made her so sorry; that was all.
But when I told that amazing story about Jane Smif, in addition to running away, mother whipped me for the first time in my life with a birch switch.