“So Willy cut a square piece of brown paper, and printed on it in big letters, ‘Dotty and Willy Pringle, Esquire.’ After which, they stuck it on the door with a bit of glue which he fortunately had in his pocket. He had put it there to chew!”
Here June stopped, for Max and Thekla were in fits of amusement. June laughed herself, and showed a dimple in each cheek, and one in her chin.
“I don’t wonder you think it funny,” she said. “I was holding my sides all the time myself. It was too comical,—the wise air of that mite of a Dotty, and the way she made Willy mind her.
“When the little people went home to dinner, and told their intentions about the house, none of the older folks made any objections. Dotty’s Mamma walked down to make sure there was nothing dangerous about the premises; and, as all seemed safe, leave was given them to play there as much as they liked.
“It was wonderful to see how much they managed to accomplish. All the village took an interest, and the good wives hunted their garrets over for old duds to furnish out the little cottage. Before long there were chairs and tables enough to supply quite a large company; and so much cracked crockery that, burning to use it, Dotty and Willy were constantly going about and begging for something, to drink from their cups and pitchers. The Mammas finding this out, and thinking a lunch would be a good thing for such busy workers, gave the milkman a standing order to leave a pint of milk every day at the door. Never was any thing so charming. He would stop and ring his bell just as he did at the grown-up houses, and Dotty—always keeping him waiting a moment for dignity’s sake—would march out with her tin measure in her hand. I suspect the milkman enjoyed the joke as much as anybody, for I never in my life did see such big pints as he used to pour out of his shining dipper.
“The whole house was scrubbed every day. Not because it was dirty, but because Dotty loved to do it. They lived principally in the kitchen, because the village custom was to use parlors very little, and keep them very dark; but now and then, when Dotty opened a chink of the parlor shutters and let in a little light, you perceived that the apartment was a magnificent one. There was a table with two daguerrotypes open upon it, and a copy of ‘Doddridge’s Rise and Progress,’ put there, as Dotty said, to look ‘littery.’ The chimney held a great bunch of asparagus feathers; and on the shelf, on the sill, everywhere, were flowers,—in mugs, bottles, pitchers, glasses. Peonies, dandelions, roses,—it didn’t matter which: all was fish that came to Dotty’s net.
“It was a grand sight to see the family at dinner,—Mrs. Dotty, Mr. Willy, and a doll named Araminta. The meal was simple. Sometimes it was bread and butter, sometimes only fennel; but always there was milk. The finest table-manners were practised. Araminta was never allowed to eat with her knife, or put her elbows on the table; and once, when she attempted to tilt her chair on two legs she was very severely punished. Oh! I assure you, Dotty was a disciplinarian.
“I don’t think any palace that ever was built gave half so much pleasure as that little house. The very crown of all, however, was the tea-party, given just before they came away. I wasn’t there myself, of course; but September told me about it. She was invited.
“Willy’s Papa had been greatly amused at the whole thing, and he helped. Two long evenings he spent in getting up the cards of invitation. They were neatly printed, and bore the following words:—
“‘Mr. and Mrs. William Pringle
request the pleasure of your company to tea
on Wednesday afternoon, at five o’clock,
at their residence, No. 17 Elm Street.
R. S. V. P.’