"She runs like a little sperrit, bliss her swate eyes," said Daniel. "I had one as pooty as her, but she's at Mary's fate, Hivven rist her sowl!"
The moment Flyaway reached the house, she rushed into the parlor to tell her mother the news.
"The man you readed about in the book, mamma, he's out there! Daniel, that the lions didn't bite, mamma, 'cause he prayed so long and so loud with his winners up; he's out there—got a hat on."
"O, no, my child; it is thousands of years since Daniel was in the lions' den; he died long and long ago."
"But he said he did, mamma; he told me so. I fought he was dead, mamma, but he said he wasn't."
Mrs. Clifford shook her head. "I dare say his name is Daniel, but he was never in a lion's den."
Flyaway opened and closed her eyes in the slowest and most impressive manner. "Mamma," said she, solemnly, "does—folks—tell—lies?"
It was an entirely now idea to the innocent child: it stamped itself upon her mind like a motto on warm sealing-wax, "Folks—does—tell—lies."
Mrs. Clifford was sorry to see the look of distrust on the young face.
"Listen to me, little Flyaway. I think the man was in sport; he was only playing with you, as Horace does sometimes, when he calls himself your horse."