CHAPTER XI.

WEEZY AND KISTY.

It was more than a year after Weezy's birthday drive that grandpa and grandma Rowe came to her father's house to spend Thanksgiving.

When they returned to the parsonage away up among the Berkshire hills, they took Weezy; and, that Weezy might not be homesick, they invited little Kisty Nye to go with her.

Weezy was five years old now, but, alas! no nearer Kisty's age than she had been before; for Kisty was now six. They found at the parsonage Mr. Henry Bishop, grandpa's oldest grandson, who took Weezy up in his lap and told her that he was her cousin, and that he boarded at grandpa's, and taught the village school.

"Kisty and I haven't ever been to school, not ever," said Weezy plaintively. "Please can't we go, Mr. Cousin Bishop?"

"You? I'm afraid you don't know enough," said Mr. Bishop, patting her cheek. "Can you say all your letters?"

"Most all, _incept_ two or three _little_ ones," said Weezy briskly. "I can spell too."

"Indeed! What can you spell?"

"Oh, I can spell all the easy words,--d, o, g, dog; c, a, t, cat; g, o, t, goat," said Weezy, proud of her knowledge.

"Oh, I see, you spell by sound, the phonetic way!" said Mr. Bishop, throwing back his head and laughing.

"Don't know what is _fonetti-quay_," returned Weezy, rather disturbed. "My brother could spell it, I guess. _He_ can spell awful hard words."

Then she frisked away to beg grandma to send her and Kisty to school to "Mr. Cousin Bishop."

"What should I do without my dear little girls?" said grandma, smiling over her spectacles. "No, no, I couldn't spare them."

But, by the close of the week, the "dear little girls" had become so tired and cross from endless romping, that grandma concluded she could spare them very well. The schoolhouse was near, and she thought it would be really better for them to go to school than to play all day long: so the next Monday morning she dressed them in their warm plaid gowns, and sent them off, each with a cooky in her pocket.

They were by far the smallest scholars of any; and Mr. Bishop soon found that when they were not at his knee, picking out their letters in the primer, it was puzzling to know what to do with them. If they sat together, they would whisper and make too much noise; and if they sat apart, Kisty would go to sleep, and Weezy would be miserable.

At last he hit upon the expedient of sending them out to play in the sunshine the moment they had recited. They liked this very much.

Right behind the schoolhouse was a steep bank, down which the boys and girls coasted at noon and at recess. Kisty and Weezy thought it fine fun to slide there all by themselves, and clumsy Kisty did not mind a fall or two, with only Weezy to see.

One afternoon, indeed, she grew so daring that she slid standing up for the whole length of the slope; but unfortunately she lost her balance at the foot, and pitched forward on her little snub nose. It bled furiously; any nose would have bled, treated in that way; and Kisty howled so dismally that Mr. Bishop heard her from his desk, and sent one of the large girls to bring her in.

The girl found frightened Weezy mopping Kisty's face with her own Mikado pocket-handkerchief, and tugging with all her might to drag her up the bank.

[Illustration: "FOUND FRIGHTENED WEEZY MOPPING KISTY'S FACE WITH HER OWN MIKADO POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF."]

"This accident puts an end to your sport, little girls," said Mr. Bishop, after they were again in their seats. "I must forbid your sliding any more."

"I think it's real mean," whispered Weezy behind her primer. "He's just as _selfish_ as he can be!"

"'Tisn't _his_ bank either," grumbled Kisty.

"I wish you wouldn't go and be such a little tumble-down girl, Kisty Nye," went on Weezy rather spitefully. "If you hadn't gone and hurt your nose, he would have let us slide some more."

"Well, do you s'pose I could help it, Weezy Rowe? Do you s'pose I hurted my nose to purpose?" retorted Kisty, burying her face in her apron.

"Don't cry," said Weezy, putting both arms around Kisty's neck. "Please not cry. It makes the blood leak out again."

"The primer class next," called Mr. Bishop.

Pulling her apron from her head, Kisty followed Weezy down the aisle to his desk for their reading-lesson.

Mr. Bishop enjoyed his two little pupils, and had taken so much pains in teaching them that they could now spell out such sentences as, "Do we go up?" quite glibly.

"That'll do," said he, when they had finished the page, and had each spelled "goat" and "coat" three times over without missing.

Then Weezy jogged Kisty's elbow, and Kisty jogged Weezy's; and it was Weezy that spoke first.

"Please can't Kisty 'n' I go out and play?"

"I hardly dare let you," replied Mr. Bishop regretfully.

"Please," pleaded Weezy. "I'll hold on to Kisty so tight she can't fall."

"She'll hold on to me," echoed Kisty.

"Will you promise to take only one slide?"

"Yes, sir, truly; but bare one," cried they in a breath.

"Well, if you'll be very careful, I'll try you," said Mr. Bishop, smiling; and they ran away, two happy little children.

They were gone so long that he entirely forgot them till late in the afternoon, when he was dismissing the school. Then, from a back window, he caught sight of them disappearing below the bank. Presently they climbed in view again, Weezy dragging Kisty.

Three times they went up and down the slope, while Mr. Bishop stood watching them with a grave face, grieved to think they should have broken their promise to him.

At last he rapped upon the pane; and they came dancing in, their cheeks glowing like cabbage-roses.

"I'm sorry I cannot trust my little girls," said he soberly, taking down his overcoat.

Bashful Kisty hung her head, but Weezy opened her great brown eyes in indignant wonder.

"_We_ haven't done any thing," said she.

"Think, Weezy. Didn't you tell me you would take but one slide? And I've seen you take three myself."

"Oh, no; honest, we never," cried Weezy.

"Never, now, certi'gly," echoed Kisty.

"Hush, children," said Mr. Bishop sternly. "It is very naughty to speak an untruth, and I say I _saw_ you sliding."

"Truly we slided only but just once," persisted Weezy, with an honest face.

Kisty pulled her apron over her head, sobbing dolefully, as she always did when scolded.

Mr. Bishop looked down upon the weeping bundle of calico, sorely puzzled.

"Did you forget your promise when you slid so many times?" he gently asked.

"We never _did_ slide so many times," said Weezy indignantly.

"'Cause we promidged," wailed Kisty. "Me and Weezy was only but just heeling and toeing the bank."

Mr. Bishop tried hard not to smile.

"Indeed, was that all? But _how_ did you heel and toe it? I want to see."

"It's just as easy as nothing," said Weezy, frisking off to the snow-drift, where she and Kisty had been playing.

At sight of its steep side riddled with holes, like a cliff full of sand-martens' nests, Mr. Bishop laughed outright; but he caught his breath when fearless little Weezy ran swiftly down, setting her small boot-heels in these holes, one after another.

"_That's_ how to _heel_ the bank," she called back from the bottom. "Quick! look, Mr. Cousin Bishop. _This_ is how to _toe_ it."

And, facing about, she ran up, pressing the toes of her little boots deep into the tracks their heels had made.

"What will these children do next to kill themselves?" thought the teacher. "I hate to keep breaking their hearts."

But, when he told them that they must not "heel and toe the bank" any more, Weezy only said,--

"Well, we _didn't_ slide so many times; now did we, Mr. Cousin Bishop?"

"And we didn't never break our promidge," added Kisty, emerging from her apron.

"As if we'd be little _tell-lie_ girls," said Weezy, as she and Kisty trudged home hand in hand behind Mr. Bishop.

When she went into the sitting-room, her grandpa and grandma sat by the open fire, with an empty chair between them, and both were smiling.

"You'd better shut the door, dear," said grandma quietly.

Weezy turned around to obey, and then, for the first time, saw her father, who had been hiding behind it.

"O papa, papa, you funny papa!" cried she, springing into his arms, and half smothering him with kisses. "Who brought you to grandma's house? Did mamma?"

"No, dear; mamma couldn't come, so she sent me to take you home for the Christmas-tree. She has a wonderful present for you."

"Oh, oh! What is it, papa?"

"I promised I wouldn't tell; but something that moves."

"A tricycle? Oh, is it a tricycle?"

"Something that can make more music than a tricycle," replied papa, with a glance at grandma.

"Is it a hand-organ? Oh, is it?" cried Weezy, clapping her hands.

"No, no, little quiz; it's not a hand-organ," laughed Mr. Rowe. "And now I sha'n't tell you another thing about it, or, before I know it, you'll be guessing what it is."