A Sweet Little Maid Part 17

"That is true," returned Dimple, her spirits rising at the suggestion of some active employment. "Now let us go and make the beds, while Bubbles does the dishes." And they set to work, with much chattering, to follow out this duty.

"There, now, it looks as neat as possible," p.r.o.nounced Dimple, as she closed the shutters to keep out the glaring sun. "Just hang up that towel that has fallen down, Florence, and then we'll go downstairs and shut up the rest of the house; by that time Bubbles will be through her work, and we can all play till it is time to get dinner."

Bubbles had just emptied her dish-pan and was about to scour the knives when they entered the kitchen.

"Hurry up, Bubbles," said Dimple, "so we can all go out and play. We want you to take care of Celestine and Rubina, while we go out shopping.

Mamma said we might use the pieces in this," holding out a calico bag.

"That is, we are just going to roll them up and have them for dry goods.

The dry goods shop is to be at the end of the porch, where the bench is.

We have cut out a great big newspaper man to sell the goods. We'll have to pin him against the railing, Florence, or he won't stand up, he is so limp. Isn't he fine and tall? His name is Mr. Star, because we cut him out of the _Evening Star_."

Their play proved to be so very interesting that it was after twelve o'clock before the little housekeepers remembered that they had a dinner to prepare, and that the making and baking of their apple pie would take some time. Then it appeared that Bubbles, in her haste to join the play, had forgotten the fire, which was nearly out.

"Never mind, we'll put in some wood," concluded Dimple, cheerfully.

"I've seen Sylvy do it lots of times, to hurry up the oven. Run, Bubbles, and get some wood. Then you can pare the apples, while I make the crust."

"Let me pare the apples," suggested Florence; "it is such fun to put them on that little thing and turn the crank, while the skin comes off so easily."

"Well, you do that," agreed Dimple. "And Bubbles can set the table."

"Why doesn't this apple go right?" said Florence. "It wabbles around so and--there!--it has gone bouncing off to the other side of the kitchen; how provoking!"

"It is a sort of 'skew-jawed' one," p.r.o.nounced Dimple. "I can never do anything with those on the parer. Pick out the ones that are perfectly round and smooth, and they will go all right. I wonder how much shortening I ought to put in. Does that look like enough to you?"

Florence viewed the pan critically. "I don't know," she replied, doubtfully. "I don't believe I know much about it; it looks like a pretty big lump."

"Oh, I'll call it enough," decided Dimple. "There, it is ready to roll out. Somehow, it doesn't roll very easily."

"Let me try," offered Florence, who, having finished paring the apples, was watching her cousin.

"It is not easy," she said, after banging away with the rolling-pin.

"Maybe Bubbles can do it; her arms are stronger;" and, after this third effort, some sort of crust was ready, with which to line the pan.

"It seems pretty thick," Dimple declared, looking at it with a dissatisfied eye; "but it is the best we can do."

"Oh, it will taste all right," encouraged Florence. "Now for the apples; what else, Dimple?"

"Sugar, and little bits of b.u.t.ter and--what else? Oh, yes, a little sprinkling of flour. Now the top goes on, and it can go into the oven. I wonder how long it will take to bake. It is one o'clock, and I am beginning to get hungry.

"The oven isn't very hot," she presently p.r.o.nounced. "Put some more wood in, Bubbles. Oh, what is the matter, Florence?" as an exclamation made her turn in her cousin's direction.

"I have burned my hand," said Florence, trying hard not to cry. "I wanted to look at the fire, and when I lifted the lid, the steam from the kettle came just where I put my hand. I didn't know steam could burn so."

"It is worse than anything else," informed Dimple. "It is too bad. I'll get something to put on it, to take the burn out."

"Kar'sene's mighty good," suggested Bubbles.

"Yes, and so is flour; and linseed oil is good; that will be the best,"

and the bottle being brought, the wounded hand was bound up and Florence retired from action and sat on the step watching the others, while she nursed her hurt.

"Let me see," went on Dimple, bustling about. "We have chicken, and bread and b.u.t.ter, and sliced tomatoes, and milk, and the 'cobbler.' It is doing, Florence; it is beginning to brown."

"I wish it would hurry up," Florence said. "I'm hungry, and, oh! how my hand hurts."

"Isn't it any better?"

"A little; but it doesn't feel a bit good."

"It is too bad," said Dimple, sympathetically, coming over and putting a floury hand on her cousin's.

"I smell the pie," she exclaimed, jumping up. "It must be burning," and she ran to the oven.

"Is it burned?" asked Florence, anxiously.

"No, only just a weeny bit caught. I'll take it out. Doesn't it look good?"

Florence gave an admiring a.s.sent, and they proceeded to take their meal; but alas!--when the pie was cut a ma.s.s of sticky dough and raw apple was disclosed to the disappointment of them all.

"We'll have to put it back and eat it after awhile," said Florence. "It will taste just as good then."

"Yes, and we can eat cake for dessert," and the pie was again placed in the oven.

Not long after, a rapping was heard at the side porch. "Who in the world can that be around there!" exclaimed Dimple. "Go and see, Bubbles."

Bubbles looked out, cautiously, for it was not the usual place for any one to make an appearance. Presently she came back with big eyes and a somewhat scared expression. "Hit's a man, Miss Dimple," she said, in an excited whisper, "with a gre't big haid an' long hair, an' somethin' on his back."

Florence and Dimple looked at each other. "Let's peep and see,"

whispered the latter, as the rapping, which had ceased, began again.

They peeped timidly through the shutters. "He looks queer," said Dimple, "maybe he is crazy."

"Oh!" cried Florence, with a stifled scream, "maybe he is an escaped lunatic. Dimple, let's lock all the doors, and hide," and the two ran into the kitchen, barring and locking the door, and then raced upstairs as fast as they could go, with Bubbles close following at their heels.

Florence buried her face in the pillows and covered up her head with the bed clothes; Bubbles crawled under the bed, then, as the rapping continued louder than before, interspersed with calls of "Hey, there!

Hey, there!" Dimple, feeling very brave, opened the window and cried out, "Go away!" then she shut down the window with a slam, and sprang into the middle of the room with very red cheeks and a beating heart.

After a little time all was quiet, and the three timidly ventured downstairs to find the pie baked to such a crisp brownness, that it barely escaped being called black. It was set aside to cool, and after a short parley, the children set out to reconnoitre, armed with such weapons as they thought most useful. Bubbles carried an axe, Florence a bottle of ammonia, which she meant to throw in the face of the intruder "to take his breath away," she declared; and Dimple bore a long rope and a pair of large scissors. She intended, she said, to snip at the man if he came near her, and, when he was overpowered by Florence's ammonia, to bind him hand and foot with the rope.

But, after a long and thorough search, no one was found about the premises, and they all returned to the house to eat the "cobbler," which by this time was cool.

"It doesn't taste like Sylvy's," said Dimple. "I believe I forgot to put any salt in the crust, and where it isn't hard it is tough; there! I didn't put any water in it, of course there is scarcely any juice. I was going to save some for mamma, but I don't think I shall. We'll give it away to the first person we can," she continued to Florence.

This happened to be an organ grinder, who made his appearance at the gate. Bubbles was despatched with the message that they hadn't any money, but there was some pie, and the organ grinder departed, whether grateful or not, they did not learn.

"It seems to me it has been a pretty long day," said Dimple, as the afternoon wore on. "Five o'clock. Three hours before we can possibly expect mamma. I should think she would get dreadfully tired of housekeeping," she continued, remembering her discouraging pie. "I don't feel as if I wanted any supper, do you, Florence?"

"Not now," replied Florence; "but your mamma will want some."