"Yes, auntie, I reckon it was! We all cried like we should kill ourselves, and put our fingers in our ears; for we heard the man when he fired the gun,—I mean we heard the gun when the man fired it,—and then it was of no use; but we stopped our ears, and Miss All'n hid her face, and cried—and cried—and cried!"
"O dear me, it did seem like we didn't any of us want to go to school any more, if we couldn't see our old dog coming to meet us, and rub his head against our dresses. And it was just as lonesome,—now it was so, auntie."
"Poor old doggie!" sighed aunt Madge.
"It wasn't you, was it, Pincher," cried Horace, seizing his dog by both ears. "I reckon if they tried to shoot you they'd catch it."
"Now, Susy, it's your turn," said Grace.
"No, Horace's; he's the oldest."
"Pshaw!" returned Horace, who had been the very first one to propose stories, "I'd like to get shut of it. Pshaw! I can't think of nothin'."
"But you must, you know, Horace; so it's no use to grumble."
"O shucks! Has it got to be true?"
"Don't say 'shucks,' Horace," said Grace, gently. "You can tell a true story, or make it up as you go along.—Come, hurry."