white kitten did, but the ball was part of Grandma Dearborn's knitting
work. When she found the needles pulled out and the stitches dropped,
she scolded him sharply. All her children had been grown up so long
she had quite forgotten how to make allowances for things of that
sort.

There was a basket of stiff, highly colored wax fruit on the
marble-topped table in the parlor. Miss Barbara Dearborn had made it
at boarding-school and presented it to her sister-in-law many years
before. How Robin ever managed to lift off the glass case without
breaking it no one ever knew. That he had done so was evident, for in
every waxen red-cheeked pear and slab-sided apple were the prints of
his sharp little teeth. It seemed little short of sacrilege to Mrs.
Dearborn, whose own children had regarded it for years from an
admiring distance, fearing to lay unlawful fingers even on the glass
case that protected such a work of art.

He dropped a big white china button into the cake dough when Molly,
"the help," had her back turned. It was all ready to be baked, and she
unsuspectingly whisked the pan into the oven. Company came to tea,
and Grandpa Dearborn happened to take the slice of cake that had the
button in it. Manlike, he called everyone's attention to it, and his
wife was deeply mortified.

He left the pasture gate open so that the calves got into the garden.
He broke Grandpa Dearborn's shaving-mug, and spilled the lather all
over himself and the lavender bows of the best pin-cushion. He untied
a bag that had been left in the window to sun, to see what made it
feel so soft inside. It was a bag of feathers saved from the pickings
of many geese. He was considerably startled when the down flew in all