CHAPTER I.

TEASING POKY.

"I's Weezy Wozy, and I's two old," said little Louise Rowe on her second birthday; and from that time forth everybody called her "Weezy," though it wasn't her real name any more than it is yours.

There were two other little Rowes in the family,—Kirke, six years old; and Molly, eight. Their father lived in a pretty Queen Anne cottage at the end of the street, and the Wymans just around the corner. Mrs. Wyman was aunt Clara, Mr. Rowe's sister.

Having no children of their own, Dr. and Mrs. Wyman were fond of borrowing their youngest niece; and this birthday morning the doctor's voice was heard calling from Mr. Rowe's gate,—

"Has anybody here a little girl to lend? a little girl two years old."

"Here I is, unker Docker. I's two old," cried little Miss Weezy, toddling through the hall.

"Possible? Then you must be the very young lady I'm looking for. Get your bonnet, Snowy-locks."

Mrs. Rowe brought the dainty white Normandy cap, and tied it under Weezy's chin.

"You must be unker Docker's darling," said she, lifting her into the carriage.

Weezy bobbed her head till the cap-frill quivered like a spray of cherry-blossoms in a wind, and away she was whirled to her uncle's door.

Aunt Clara came out, with her bonnet on, to ask Dr. Wyman to drive down to the dress-maker's.

"And if you'll be a good girl, Weezy, and stay with Poky, we'll bring you home an orange," said she.

"A dreat, bid ollange?" asked Weezy, always sharp on a bargain.

"Yes, dear; a great, big orange, the biggest in the store."

"Oh, ho, I likes ollanges!" remarked Weezy, prancing away to find the colored girl, whose long name was Pocahontas.

Poky was washing. After giving Weezy the clothes-pins to play with, she hastened back to her tub on the other side of the kitchen. Suddenly two little white arms splashed into the soap-suds beside her own black ones.

"Poky tired. Weezy he'p," said the little guest, who had climbed a chair unnoticed.

"Sho, Miss Weezy! peart help you are, for shore!" cried Poky, wringing her out, and standing her upon the table, while she herself put a basketful of clothes into the boiler on the range.

Then, believing the child safely penned, she brought her a cookie, and ran out to hang the clothes-line. Unfortunately, Poky had failed to notice that one end of the wash-bench was near the table. Left to herself, Weezy speedily dropped down upon the bench, and from that to the floor; and thus it came to pass that she ran and slammed the door behind Pocahontas almost as soon as the girl had crossed the threshold.

"Poky tan't tum in!" crowed Weezy, turning the key in the lock.

"Please let Poky in! Oh, Weezy must let poor Poky in!" shrieked the startled maid, running back to the porch, and shaking the door.

"No, no! Poky tan't tum in," repeated the little tease, delighted to make a sensation.

Pocahontas could hear the soap-suds bubbling in the wash-boiler, and she knew it might at any moment overflow and scald the child. But what was to be done? Half wild, she ran from window to window, and found every one of them bolted. The front-door, too, was fastened, and the key was in Dr. Wyman's pocket. A sharp clattering in the kitchen drew trembling Poky to the window in the rear.

"Oh, oh! Little Miss Weezy'll kill herself, and the doctor'll blame me!" groaned she, looking in as Weezy thrust the poker into the range.

"I's makin' fire," shouted the child proudly, while in the boiler above the water foamed and seethed.

"Weezy'll burn! Weezy'll burn! Oh, please come!" cried Pocahontas with chattering teeth.

Weezy laughed roguishly, and rattled the poker.

"Quick! oh, quick!" sobbed Poky, almost beside herself, as she saw streams of water beginning to course down the sides of the boiler.

Weezy looked up, and the tears in Poky's eyes melted the child's perverse little heart.

"Poor Poky ky; Poky s'all come in," said she, skipping across to the window.

Her flight was none too soon; for the soap-suds that moment boiled over, flooding the range and every thing within reach. Even far away as she was, Weezy's pretty Gretchen dress was spattered from neck to hem.

Little did aunt Clara think of that, as she sprang into the kitchen, and caught up her mischievous pet, crying,—

"Thank Heaven, my darling is safe! What was Poky thinking of, to leave you alone!"

"Poky out doors! Weezy shut Poky out!" said the little rogue demurely.

"You shut Poky out!" exclaimed astonished aunt Clara, kissing the wee meddling hands, still black from the poker. "Well, well, who ever heard the like?"

And it was Mrs. Wyman who let poor Poky in, as Weezy could not turn back the key.

CHAPTER II.

GOING TO CHURCH.

Weezy was fast learning to talk, and her brother and sister delighted in teaching her long and difficult words, such as "Mexico" and "Constantinople."

Molly was a motherly little girl, always worrying over the shortcomings of Weezy and her young brother. It is true that Kirke was often led astray by a rough little playmate, Jimmy Maguire; and Weezy was perhaps instructed in mischief by a three-years-old neighbor, Kisty Nye: still, it might have been as well if Molly had found less fault with the little ones, and thought more of correcting her own sad failing,—a quick and troublesome temper.

One evening the three children were swinging together in the hammock in their front yard, watching for grandpa Rowe.

"Now sing 'Little Sally Walker,' darling, please do," said Molly, playing with her little sister's flaxen curls.

Weezy had already hummed "Bring back my Bonnie to me," and various other tunes, and was tired.

"Tan't sing; sing's all gone! Loot!" said she, opening her mouth very wide, to show how empty it was of music.

"Grandpa's most here!" shouted Kirke, leaping from the hammock and running to meet an old gentleman walking up the street. Yes, it was grandpa Rowe, a dear white-haired minister, with kind blue eyes, and a face as smooth and pink as a baby's. And the satchel he carried held a written sermon; for he was going to stay over Sunday and preach for the village pastor, Mr. Cutler.

"It isn't every little girl that has such a good grandpa, Weezy, I can tell you," said Molly wisely, as they hastened after Kirke. "Why, if you should be naughty, it would make him want to cry."

The remark seemed to amuse Weezy very much; and when the "good" man took her in his arms to kiss her, she shouted gleefully,—

"Gampa goin' to ky! What a keer old gampa!"

Molly was so mortified that she ran into the house, and kept out of the way till tea-time.

Grandpa's visits were always a delight, and it was considered a great treat to hear him preach. The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Rowe both wanted to go to church; but with Lovisa Bran, the housemaid, away, what could be done with Weezy?

"Can't Molly stay with her?" suggested Mr. Rowe, closing the dining-room door for fear of being overheard.

"Of course she might do it, with neighbors so near; but she has been depending upon going to church with her grandfather."

"Yes, I know. She thinks it a high honor to have a minister in the family. I overheard her boasting last night that she was the only girl in her class who had a grandfather that could preach!"

"I would stay at home myself if it was respectful to father," said Mrs. Rowe thoughtfully.

When she went up-stairs by and by, she found Molly trying on the pretty fall hat that she had not yet worn. It was a white felt, trimmed with blue velvet and blue and white ostrich plumes, and suited well her fair complexion and rich auburn hair.

"It is lovely, dear, and I know it will be a sad disappointment to you if you can't wear it to-day," said Mrs. Rowe, coming up behind her daughter at the glass.

"Not wear it? It doesn't rain. Why can't I wear it?" cried Molly in great excitement.

Mrs. Rowe hesitated. It was certainly her own place rather than Molly's to attend church to-day; but she found it hard to crush her little daughter's pleasant anticipations.

"You forget, Molly, that Lovisa is away, and somebody must look out for little sister," said she gently. "Aren't you willing to be the one?"

"No, I'm not, mamma, I'm not willing. I think it's too horrid, hateful mean! I never can go anywhere or do any thing I want to, just because of that little tagging fuss-budget," cried Molly, tearing off the cherished hat and flinging it on the bed in a towering passion.

"That will do," sighed mamma, walking away. "And you need not stay at home, Molly. I should be sorry to trust our little Weezy to the care of a girl who does not control herself."

"Any thing wrong, Mary?" asked Mr. Rowe, meeting his wife in the hall.

"Only Molly's temper again," said she wearily. "She feels so abused at being asked to stay at home with Weezy that I think it wisest not to urge the point, but to leave her to herself, and let her find out how naughty she is."

"Poor Molly, that quick temper of hers is always getting her into trouble; but she is sure to repent bitterly," said Mr. Rowe, as he followed his wife down-stairs.

"Do you know what's in my mind?" said Mrs. Rowe, pausing on the landing, with an air of being about to say something startling. "I'm half inclined to take Weezy to church."

Mr. Rowe whistled.

"There must be a first time," went on Mrs. Rowe; "and she might behave very well."

"I'm willing to risk her if you are," said Mr. Rowe, on reflection; "and I know it would gratify father to see the whole family in the pew."

"Weezy's going to church; oh, goody!" cried Kirke, clapping his hands at the news; whereupon Weezy clapped hers also, though she had no more idea what "going to church" meant than a baby heathen. She was highly pleased to be going anywhere in her cardinal velvet bonnet and cloak, and ready to make any number of promises to be good.

When, at the ringing of the church-bell, Molly stole down-stairs with red eyes and downcast lids, Weezy ran to take her hand; and the three children walked together up the street, the little sister hopping along in the middle, as radiant as a young flamingo. Mr. and Mrs. Rowe in front of them, with grandpa, turned every now and then to smile upon the happy baby.

"I hope she won't disgrace us to-day," remarked papa; "but I must confess I feel somewhat as though we were taking a menagerie to church."

"A menagerie that has good intentions; yes, so do I," laughed mamma nervously, pausing to help Weezy up the steps.

The child's ruff was askew; and while it was being straightened, and secured with a pin, grandpa went on up the broad aisle, and mounted the stairs to the pulpit.

Weezy did not see him go; but, the moment she was seated in the pew with the rest of the family, she missed him, and began to stare about her in every direction. Unfortunately, she was so short, and the pulpit was so tall, that she could not get so much as a glimpse of her grandpa's head behind it.

"Poor gampa's lost hisse'f," thought she, distressed for a moment; but she could not grieve long, where every thing around her was so grand and so strange. It was early yet, and she amused herself for some time in watching the colored light that streamed in through the stained east window. One red ray adorned the crown of Miss Blount's bonnet in the seat in front; another ray of green rested, like a plaster, on Deacon's Crosby's nose. Weezy wanted to laugh; but she didn't laugh, for she meant to be "mamma's goody girl."

All this time people were moving along the aisles and galleries to their pews. Weezy thought these galleries very queer.

"What for do they have such high up pee-zaz-zas, mamma?" whispered she.

"Hush, dear," said mamma anxiously; "folks mustn't talk in church."

Weezy puckered up her lips like the rim of a wilted morning-glory, and sat as prim as a little nun till the organ sounded the first notes of the voluntary.

"Wind blows," whispered she; then, as the grand music pealed forth, she fairly quivered with delight, and sprang up to lean over the back of the pew, her brown eyes sparkling and her cheeks aglow.

Mr. Rowe looked at her proudly, wondering if there was ever a more bewitching child.

Dear papa! his look of pride soon changed to one of dismay; for as the music ceased and Weezy turned, she saw her grandfather rising in the pulpit, and gave a little squeal of joy.

"I see gampa," cried she, in her ringing, childish voice. "Look, papa; there's gampa, on the manty-piece."

It was rather droll to think of a grown-up minister tucked away on a mantle-piece, and several people smiled; but grandpa Rowe read the hymn as solemnly as though he had not heard a word.

Papa shook his head at Weezy, mamma put her finger on the child's lip, and Molly looked ready to cry; but merry little Kirke could not keep from laughing. He laughed till he had to stuff his handkerchief into his mouth; and of course the more he laughed, the harder it was to control Weezy.

The congregation now arose for the opening hymn; and the moment Weezy heard her papa's voice, she thought she ought surely to sing too. So with the best will in the world she struck up "Little Sally Walker," clear and high.

Dear, well-meaning baby! she had always before been called a goody girl for singing, and why didn't mamma like it now? What made mamma drag her out of church in such a hurry? It was so queer!

"WHAT MADE MAMMA DRAG HER OUT OF CHURCH IN SUCH A HURRY?"

Wretched Molly, left alone at the head of the pew, cowered over her hymn-book, shrinking from the eyes of the congregation.

"O mamma, mamma! don't you see how I felt?" sobbed she, an hour later, in her mother's room, whither she had rushed from church to beg pardon for her angry words in the morning. "I know everybody was thinking, 'There sits that selfish, selfish Molly Rowe. Why didn't she stay at home with her little sister, instead of letting her come to disturb the meeting?'"

"Hush, dear: I don't imagine they thought any such thing," said her mother soothingly. "You were not to blame for Weezy's actions."

"But, oh, mamma, you know you wouldn't have taken her to church if I hadn't been such a naughty, horrid girl. Sometimes, mamma, I can't help being mad to think I'm so wicked."

CHAPTER III.

THE PUMPKIN HOOD.

There was a great bustle next morning at the Queen Anne cottage. Right after breakfast grandpa Rowe went away on the train; next Lovisa appeared in the Braxton stage; and, lastly, the older children had to be helped off to school, for the fall term began that day.

"I tell you, Mrs. Rowe, it does seem good to see live children again," said Lovisa, standing in the doorway, with Weezy clinging to her gown. Kirke was frisking down the path on his toes: but stout little Molly walked with great dignity, in order not to spill the small phial of soap-suds strapped between her books.

It was the fashion among the girls to carry soap-suds to school for washing their slates, and Molly had stained hers a lovely scarlet by soaking in it a scrap of red flannel.

"Turk go to 'c'ool, Molly go to 'c'ool, Weezy must go to 'c'ool," wailed the little sister, in a spasm of lonesomeness.

"Tut, tut! Weezy wants to see what I have brought her in my bag, that's what Weezy wants," said Lovisa, taking the child up-stairs to give her a great scalloped seed-cake.

"Funny old cooky, all wiggly," cried Weezy, sitting down upon the broad window-seat to eat it.

Pretty soon she spied a big pumpkin hood bobbing along under the window. A hood could not travel about of itself; she knew that, and she pattered down to see what was beneath it.

"Her's keer old girl, mamma: got pincoossun on," cried she, capering into the sitting-room.

"Ask Lovisa to give her something to eat," said mamma, who had seen the beggar-maid pass.

Weezy went skipping back. A few minutes later Mrs. Rowe found her perched on the kitchen-table, looking on with great round eyes while the young stranger munched a slice of bread and butter. In all her little life Weezy had never before seen so droll a figure. No wonder she called the child's head-covering a "pincushion." It certainly did not look like a hood. It was made of rusty black cloth, and stuffed with cotton, which was bursting through in twenty places.

"'Ittle dirl's dess all waggetty," chirped Weezy, pointing to the rents in the child's gown.

"What is your name, my child?" asked Mrs. Rowe kindly.

"Ellen Nolan," answered the little vagrant; and she went on to say that her father was dead, and her mother had "taken the sickness."

"Where do you live?" continued Mrs. Rowe.

"Big tenement t'other end of Spruce Street," said Ellen, with her mouth full.

"Sp'uce Stweet. Funny to say Sp'uce Stweet," put in Weezy, listening with great interest.

"I'll find something for your mother," said Mrs. Rowe, taking the child's basket into the pantry. Next moment Weezy frisked after her.

"Her hasn't no playsings, mamma. Can't her have Weezy's wabbit?"

"If my little daughter gives away her rabbit, I'm afraid she will cry for it by and by," said Mrs. Rowe, opening the cake-chest.

"No, no. Weezy won't ky."

"Well, well; run and get the rabbit, dear," said her mamma; and Weezy brought the neglected animal, that had been lying under the piano on its cotton-flannel back.

"Now you's got a playsing," said she benevolently, crowding it into Ellen Nolan's basket, between a biscuit and a doughnut.

Then, attracted by some musicians in the street, she scampered back to the sitting-room to join in the tunes.

"O mamma!" cried she, hopping up and down in ecstasy, "hear the banders blowin' moosic, and Weezy singin' what they blows."

Having watched the players out of sight, she ran into the kitchen to entertain her guest; but the funny little beggar-maid had disappeared,—basket, "playsing," and all.

"Her's tooken away Weezy's wabbit," sobbed the resentful baby, slipping through the door left ajar by Ellen. "Her's a nugly, naughty sing."

In three seconds more she was out of the yard.

"Him was Weezy's wabbit. 'Ittle dirl mustn't keep Weezy's wabbit allus," grumbled she, stubbing her indignant toes over the pavement.

Meanwhile Mrs. Rowe had been hastening to wind the spools in her work-basket before her little daughter should return to tangle the threads. Presently she was struck by the unusual stillness of the house, and went to see what the child was doing.

"I took it for granted she was with you," said Lovisa, appearing from the basement, where she had been at work ever since Ellen Nolan left. "Isn't she up-stairs?"

"No: I've looked everywhere; and the porch-door is open. I'm afraid she has run away."

"I'll cut across to Cedar Street," said Lovisa, running out bareheaded.

Seizing her bonnet, Mrs. Rowe hurried over to Mrs. Nye's, in the hope that Weezy might be with Kisty; but none of the family had seen her that day. More and more alarmed, Mrs. Rowe hastened on down the street. Passing a group of laborers digging by the roadside, she remembered with a shudder that new water-pipes were being laid throughout the city. What if her baby had fallen into one of the deep trenches opened for these? Entering the nearest drug-store, she telephoned to her husband that Weezy was missing; and then, at a loss what further to do, ran home again to learn the result of Lovisa's search.

All this time Weezy was enjoying the world. April child that she was, she soon forgot her tears; and catching sight of a small white dog, with long silky hair hanging over its eyes, she trudged along behind him, talking to herself.

"You's a keer doggy: ought to be 'shame," said she. "Hair all snarled up!"

Following the dog into Main Street, she stared with happy wonder at the gay shops on either side. A gaudy barber's pole especially pleased her.

"You's got pitty scarf," said she, hugging it, and trying to pick off the painted stripes.

"My stars alive, what little creetur is this!" exclaimed a policeman, spying her.

"I's papa's 'ittle Fidget," said she promptly, pleased with his uniform.

"And where does your father live?"

"Way, way off."

"Yes, yes; but what street does he live on, little girl?"

"Sp'uce Stweet," answered Weezy, suddenly remembering the funny name Ellen Nolan had spoken.