it out from the heap under her father's arm, and smooths it on her knee._)
But, oh! father, how you are making hay of my things!

_Christy._ Then I wish I could make hay of them, for hay is much wanting
for the horses that's in it.

_Miss G._ (_putting on her plaid scarf_) Weary on these pins! that I can't
stick any way at all, my hands all trimble so.--Biddy! Biddy! Biddy! Biddy,
can't ye?--(_Re-enter BIDDY, looking bewildered._) Just pin me behind,
girl--smart.

_Christy._ Biddy is it?--Biddy, girl, come over and help me tramp down this
hay.

[_CHRISTY jumps into the chest._

_Miss G._ Oh, Biddy, run and stop him, for the love of God! with his
brogues and big feet.

_Biddy._ Oh, marcy! that's too bad, sir; get out o' that if you plase,
or Miss Florry will go mad, sure! and the major that's coming up the
street--Oh, sir, if you plase, in the name of mercy!

_Christy._ (_jumping out_) Why, then, sittle it all yourself, Biddy, and
success to you; but you'll no more get all in again afore Christmas, to the
best of my opinion, no more, see! than you'd get bottled porter, froth and
all, into the bottle again, once it was out.

_Miss G._ Such comparisons!--(_tossing back her head._)