make a baby o' _me_!"

Not that she really said so. Talking was a thing she did not often
attempt, though she sang a great deal, with a voice as clear as a flute.
Prudy mourned because her tongue "did not grow fast enough." But where
was the need of speech? If she fancied she would like to be tossed to
the "sky of the room," she had only to pat her father's arm, and point
upward, and the next minute she was flying to the ceiling, in high glee,
and catching her breath. If she wished to go walking, it was enough to
point to the door, and then to her hat. Her little forefinger was as
good as most people's tongues, and served as a tolerably good
guide-post, for it pointed the way she meant to go herself, and the way
she wished others to go.

One day, while Mrs. Parlin was making currant jelly, she allowed Prudy
to stay in the kitchen, and see her strain the beautiful crimson juice.
But as for Alice, she had been found pounding eggs in a mortar, and must
be taken away. She was placed in care of Susy, who led her out upon the
piazza, where she could watch the people passing by. "_Pedadder!_" cried
Alice, showing her dimples. "Yes, _piazza_; so it is," said careless
Susy, beginning to read a fairy story, and soon forgetting her quiet
little charge.

Looking up at last, there was nothing to be seen of Alice. She could not
have entered the house, for the front-door knob was above her reach.

Susy ran out upon the pavement, and looked up and down the street.
Which way to go she could not tell, but started down street at full
speed. "O, I'm sure I ought to be going _up street_," gasped she; "and
if I was, I shouldn't think _that_ was right either. Wish I knew which