“Mice ate up her cows! It must be very great mice, or else very tinty cows!”
But the sad fact that Tate was going to another school made Dotty as lonesome as a widowed dove. She was obliged to go round to Mrs. Penny’s that night to talk about it; she told her mother she “couldn’t live if she didn’t.”
“O, mamma,” cried she, as soon as she returned, “I do wish you’d let me go to that dear little school! It’s Tate’s aunt’s mother, and she keeps cows and mice, and it’s such a dear little school!”
“What do you know about the lady, Dotty?”
“O, Tate told me all about her. She wears one of these hair things you call a wig, and a cap right on over it; and to-morrow’s Wednesday, no school in the afternoon; but her aunt’s mother has it all day, and afterwards going to show ’em the sheeps and camp-meetings. And wants to know if I can go—there’s little boys, too—with my red dress on, and stay to Tate’s house to tea—if you don’t care and perfectly willing. ’Cause it’s a dear little school!”
Dotty caught her breath, and went on:—
“She wants me to go all the time, and not go to Miss Parker, Tate does. The woman’s real good, and prays in school with her eyes wide open. That’s so she can see the little boys and little girls when they’re doing naughty, and gets up and shakes ’em, and then she goes to praying again.”
“I shouldn’t want to go to such a school as that,” said Prudy.
“O, she doesn’t shake ’em, ’thout they need to be shook; she’s a good woman, and lets ’em eat gingerbread in school.”