you haven't thrown away your handkerchief! Here, cry into mine!"

"I didn't want to cry, Hollis; I wanted to laugh," said the child,
wiping her eyes with her doll's cloak. "When you ride in carriages, you
don't get anywhere; but when you ride in the cars, you get there right
off."

"Yes; that's so, my dear. You are in the right of it, as you always are.
Now I am going to turn the seat over, and sit where I can look at
you--just so."

"O, that's just as splendid, Hollis! Now there's only me and Flipperty.
There, I put her 'pellent cloak on wrong; but see, now, I've
un-_wrong-side-outed_ it! Don't she sit up like a lady?"

Her name was Flipperty Flop. She was a large jointed doll (not a doll
with large joints,) had seen a great deal of the world, and didn't think
much of it. She came of a high family, and had such blue blood in her
veins, that the ground wasn't good enough for her to walk on. She wore
a "'pellent cloak" and rubber boots, and had a shopping-bag on her arm
full of "choclid" cakes. She was nearly as large as her mother, and all
of two years older. A great deal had happened to her before her mother
was born, and a great deal more since. Sometimes it was dropsy, and she
had to be tapped, when pints of sawdust would run out. Sometimes it was
consumption, and she wasted to such a skeleton that she had to be
revived with cotton. She had lost her head more than once, but it never
affected her brains: she was all the better with a young head now and
then on her old shoulders. Her present ailment appeared to be small-pox;
she was badly pitted with pins and a penknife. "I declare I forgot to
get a ticket for her," said Horace. "What if the conductor shouldn't