"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.
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