Live children indeed! And here comes one of them now—the unaccountable Fly, darting into the room very unexpectedly, rubbing her eyes as she runs.
"Why, Topknot!" cried Horace, making a dash upon her; for her frock was unfastened, and slipping off at the shoulders, and her head looked like a last year's bird's nest.
"Scusa me," whispered the "live child," very much astonished to see such a crowd.
"But you ought not to come down here half undressed, you little midget!"
"What if I wanted to ask you sumpin?" stammered the child, more alarmed by her brother's sternness than by the fire of strange eyes. "'Spec' I mus' have my froat goggled; have some more poke-rime round it, Hollis!" added she, in a tone loud enough to be heard by half the party.
Think of mentioning "poke-rime" in fashionable society!
"Tell her she must dance 'Little Zephyrs,' or you'll send her right back," suggested Prudy, who was famous for thinking of the right thing at the right time, and so making awkward affairs pass off well.
"Yes, Fly, come out in the floor, and dance 'Little Zephyrs' this minute, or you must go back to bed."
Anything for the sake of staying down stairs. Hardly conscious of the strange faces about her, the child flew into the middle of the room, rubbed some more sleep out of her eyes, and began to sing,—
"Little zephyrs, light and gay,
First to tell us of the spring."