He called back to her: "I wouldn't 'a' cared so much if it hadn't 'a'
been the what-not and them Minervy flowers. When a boy tips over a
what-not he's goin' it purty strong."

"Well don't be too severe. You'd better come now and git me a pail o'
water--ayes, I think ye had."

Uncle Peabody did a lot of sneezing and coughing with his big, red
handkerchief over his face and I was not old enough then to understand
it. He kissed me and took my little hand in his big hard one and led me
down the stairs.

After that in private talks uncle and I always referred to our parlor as
the wolf den and that night, after I had gone to bed, he lay down beside
me and told the story of a boy who, having been left alone in his
father's house one day, was suddenly set upon and roughly handled by a
what-not, a shaggy old hair-cloth sofy and an album. The sofy had begun
it by scratchin' his face and he had scratched back with a shingle nail.
The album had watched its chance and, when he stood beneath it, had
jumped off a shelf on to his head. Suddenly he heard a voice calling
him:

"Little boy, come here," it said, and it was the voice of the what-not.

"Just step up on this lower shelf," says the old what-not. "I want to
show ye somethin'."

The what-not was all covered with shiny things and looked as innocent as
a lamb.