“Why, Norah, what makes you starch the clothes before you put them out? Why don’t you wait till they’re dry?”
“It isn’t starch, Miss Dotty; it’s the cold weather. You’d better run into the house before you freeze.”
“Why, I haven’t hung out but one napkin and two hangerjifs, Norah.”
“No matter; your hands are as red as lobsters; and, another thing, you’re shaking the clothes all to pieces. Did I ever tell you how your sister Prudy was served once, when she was a wee thing, and wouldn’t mind me?”
“Didn’t Prudy always mind? You said she did.”
“Well, no; once Prudy was naughty. I told her to go away from the door, and not touch the frosty nails; but she didn’t pay any heed; and by and by she came crying to me, and do you believe, there were nails sticking to her fingers.”
“Honest? truly?”
“Yes; Prudy remembers it, I know.”
“I mean to go ask her,” said Dotty, dropping a collar and bounding away. “Prudy,” said she, rushing into the house breathless, her cheeks and the tip of her nose glowing with the kisses of the wind. “I’ll tell you something. Did you ever have nails sticking to your fingers?”