short, and two very long. These last legs had joints like the springs to
buggy-tops; and as I watched, they began walking up the rush, and then I
saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. In fact, if I
hadn't been too big, I _think_ I should have heard them creak as they
went along. They didn't say anything so long as I was there, but the
moment my back was turned they began to quarrel again, and in the same
old words--"Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She didn't."

As I walked home I fell to thinking about another Katy,--a Katy I once
knew, who planned to do a great many wonderful things, and in the end
did none of them, but something quite different,--something she didn't
like at all at first, but which, on the whole, was a great deal better
than any of the doings she had dreamed about. And as I thought, this
little story grew in my head, and I resolved to write it down for you. I
have done it; and, in memory of my two little friends on the bulrush, I
give it their name. Here it is--the story of What Katy Did.

Katy's name was Katy Carr. She lived in the town of Burnet, which wasn't
a very big town, but was growing as fast as it knew how. The house she
lived in stood on the edge of the town. It was a large square house,
white, with green blinds, and had a porch in front, over which roses and
clematis made a thick bower. Four tall locust trees shaded the gravel
path which led to the front gate. On one side of the house was an
orchard; on the other side were wood piles and barns, and an ice-house.
Behind was a kitchen garden sloping to the south; and behind that a
pasture with a brook in it, and butternut trees, and four cows--two red
ones, a yellow one with sharp horns tipped with tin, and a dear little
white one named Daisy.

There were six of the Carr children--four girls and two boys. Katy, the