A Sweet Little Maid

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Excerpt

“Is yuh asleep, Miss Dimple?”

“No,” said Dimple, drowsily.

“I’m are.”

“Why, Bubbles,” replied Dimple, “if you were asleep you wouldn’t be talking.”

“Folks talks in their sleep sometimes, Miss Dimple,” answered Bubbles, opening her black eyes.

“Well, maybe they do, but your eyes are open now.”

“I have heerd of people sleepin’ with their eyes open,” returned Bubbles, nothing abashed.

“O, Bubbles, I don’t believe it; for that is how to go to sleep; mamma says, ‘shut your eyes and go to sleep,’ she never says, ‘open your eyes and go to sleep;’ so there!”

Bubbles sat thoughtfully looking at her toes, having nothing to say when Dimple brought her mamma into the question.

“I’ll tell you what, Bubbles,” said Dimple, after a moment’s pause, rising from the long grass where the two had been sitting. “Let’s play Indian. You make such a lovely Indian, just like a real one. I am almost afraid of you when you are painted up, and have feathers in your head.”

Bubbles grinned at the compliment.

“I will be the white maiden to be captured,” said Dimple, as Bubbles coolly proceeded to take off her frock, displaying a red flannel petticoat.

“I’ll hunt up the feathers, and you get ready,” Dimple went on. “And the shawl—we must have the striped shawl for a blanket,” and, running into the house, she soon came out with a little striped shawl, and a handful of stiff feathers. The shawl was arranged over Bubbles’ shoulders, and produced a fine effect, when the feathers were stuck in her head.

“Now if you could only have the hatchet. You go get it, Bubbles.”

“I dassent,” said Bubbles.

“Oh yes, you dare,” Dimple said, coaxingly. “I’d go ask mamma, but it is so hot and I’ve been in the house once.”

”‘Deed, Miss Dimple”—Bubbles began.

“Don’t you ‘deed me. I tell you to go and I mean it. I’ll send you to the orphan asylum, if you don’t, and I wonder how you will like that; no more cakes, no more chicken and corn–bread for you, Miss Bubbles. Mush and milk, miss.”

This dreadful threat had its desired effect, and Bubbles’ bare black legs went scudding through the grass, and were back in a twinkling.

“Hyah it is,” she said. “I was skeered, sho’ ‘nough.”

“Oh well, you are a goose,” said Dimple. “Who ever heard of an Indian being scared at a hatchet? Now I will go into the woodshed—that is my house, you know—and you must skulk softly along, and when you get to the door bang it open with the hatchet, and give a whoop.”

So Dimple went in her house and shut the door, fearfully peeping through the cracks once in a while, as the terrible foe crept softly nearer and nearer, then with a terrific yell burst in.

“Please, Mr. Indian, don’t scalp me.”

“Ugh!” said the Indian.

“What shall I do?” said Dimple. “Make me take off my stockings and shoes, Bubbles. You know the captives must go barefooted.”

“Ugh!” said the Indian, pointing to Dimple’s feet.

“My shoes and stockings? Well, I will give them to you,” and she quickly took them off. The Indian gravely tied them around his neck, and taking Dimple by the hand he led her forth in triumph.

But here a disaster followed, for the captive, thinking it her duty to struggle, knocked the hatchet out of the Indian’s hand, and it fell with its edge on Dimple’s little white foot, making a bad gash.

“Oh, you’ve killed me, sure enough,” she cried. “Oh, you wicked, wicked thing!”

Poor Bubbles cried quite as hard as she, and begged not to be sent to the orphan asylum.

“Oh! your mother will whip me,” she cried. “I ‘spect I ought to be killed, but ‘deed I didn’t mean to, Miss Dimple; I wisht it had been my old black foot.”

“I wish it had,” sobbed Dimple. “Oh, I am bleeding all to nothing! Take me to mamma, Bubbles!”

Bubbles stooped down and, being a little larger and stronger, managed to carry her to the house.

Dimple’s mamma was horrified when they appeared at her door. Bubbles in war–paint and feathers, carrying the little barefooted girl, from whose foot blood was dropping on the floor.

“What on earth is the matter? Oh, Dimple! Oh, Bubbles! What have you been doing?”

But Bubbles was so overcome by terror, and Dimples by the sight of the blood, that neither could explain till the foot was washed and bandaged.

Then poor Bubbles flung herself on the floor and begged not to be sent to the orphan asylum.

“You ridiculous child,” said Dimple’s mamma. “Of course you ought to be careful, but it is not your fault any more than Dimple’s. She should not have sent you for the hatchet. I am very sorry for my little Dimple; it is not so very serious, but she will not be able to walk for several days. Next time you want to play Indian, do without a hatchet. Put on your frock, Bubbles, and go into the kitchen, for I’m sure I heard Sylvy call you.”

Bubbles went meekly out and Dimple was soon asleep on the sofa.