"Oh, Dumps, that's too wicked," said Diddie. "You mustn't never be
glad when anybody's dead; that's too wicked a poetry; I sha'n't write
it in the book."

"Well, I nuver knowed nuthin' else," said Dumps. "I couldn't hardly
make that up; I jes had ter study all my might; and I'm tired of
writin' poetry, anyhow; you make it up all by yourse'f."

Diddie, with her brows drawn together in a frown, and her eyes tight
shut, chewed the end of her pencil, and, after a few moments, said,

"Dumps, do you min' ef the cow was to run his horns through her forrid
stid of her neck?"

"No, hit don't make no diffrence to me," replied Dumps.

"Well, then," said Diddie, "ef 'twas her forrid, I kin fix it."

So, after a little more study and thought, Diddie wound up the story
thus:

"Once 'twas er little girl, so wicked and horrid,
Till the cow run his horns right slap through her forrid,
And throwed her to hebn all full of her sin,
And, the gate bein open, he pitched her right in."

And that was "The END of the Bad Little Girl."

"Now there's jes one mo' tale," said Diddie, "and that's about