Once upon a time there was a dear little naughty girl, not _bad_, she
would not have been so dear had she been really bad, but just naughty
sometimes, and I must confess "sometimes" came pretty often. She had all
sorts of loving scolding names, such as "precious torment," "darling
bother," and she kept her poor dear grandmother on a continuous trot to
see what mischief she was in, and frightened her mother (who thought
everybody must want to steal Zay) by hiding behind the Missouri currant
bush until every nook and corner had been searched; and she made her
uncle shake his head gravely because she never could get beyond the
first question in the Catechism, "what is your name?" and even then
would answer _Zay_, although he had told her that "that was not her name
at all; she had been baptized Salome; and Zay was a name she had no
right to whatever." Nor can I begin to tell you the times I have
exhausted all my strength putting her sturdy little self into the
closet, and then standing first on one foot, then on the other, until I
was ready to drop, listening at the keyhole for the first small sob of
repentance.

Things had gone wrong with our naughty little Zay this morning. Mary,
the good old cook, who had been in the house years before Zay was born,
had actually refused to let her make any more mud-pies on her kitchen
window; and mamma and grandma had sided with the enemy.

Zay was a little dumpling of a girl, with hard round cheeks like red
apples, fat dimpled arms, and such wide-open eyes, and she looked very
funny now as she drew herself up to her fullest height, which was not
much of a height after all, brushed off her pretty blue dress, shook
down her clean ruffled apron, and addressed us all in very solemn
tones: