“I want to die,” moaned Tate.
“You stop it; stop dying this minute,” screamed Dotty.
Tate rose drearily, but let the wind blow her down again.
“O, dear, Tate Penny, I wish your nose didn’t bleed so easy!”
“Well, it does; but when I’m dead it won’t.”
“Tate, Tate, we can’t ever be buried in the stemmitry!”
“Why not?”
“’Cause, we shall blow into the Stiftic Ocean.”
“Do you s’pose we’ll die?” said poor Tate, her eyes dripping icicles.