your name anywhere in the dust that covered mantel, stove, and furniture.

And this was Gypsy's room.

Tom had spent a longer time in looking at it than I have taken to tell
about it, and when he was through looking he did one of those things that
big brothers of sixteen long years' experience in this life, who are
always teasing you and making fun of you and "preaching" at you, are
afflicted with a chronic and incurable tendency to do. It is very
fortunate that Gypsy deserved it, for it was really a horrible thing,
girls, and if I were you I wouldn't let my brothers read about it, as you
value your peace of mind, lace collars, clean clothes, good tempers, and
private property generally. I'd put a pin through these leaves, or fasten
them together with sealing-wax, or cut them out, before I'd run the risk.

And what did he do? Why, he put a chair in the middle of the room, tied a
broom to it (he found it in the corner with a little heap of dust behind
it, as Gypsy had left it when her mother sent her up to sweep the room
that morning), and dressed it up in the three dresses, the cloaks and the
cape, one above another, the chair serving as crinoline. Upon the top of
the broom-handle he tied the torn apron, stuffed out with the
rubber-boots, and pinned on slips of the geography leaves for features;
Massachusetts and Vermont giving the graceful effect of one pink eye and
one yellow eye, Australia making a very blue nose, and Japan a small green
mouth. The hatchet and the riding-whip served as arms, and the whole
figure was surmounted by the Sunday hat that had the dust on its feather.
From under the hem of the lowest dress, peeped the toes of all the pairs
of shoes and rubbers, and the entire contents of the sliding table-cloth,
down to every solitary pencil, needle, and crumb of cake, were ranged in a
line on the carpet. To crown the whole, he pinned upon the image that