punky nest at the bottom.

"Can't you climb up?" said Ellen, who had recovered her temper by now.
"Because somebody has climbed up and stuck an ol' shoe out of a
knothole way up."

I climbed out of the hollow and followed her point. Sure enough--thirty
feet or so from the ground the toe of a much-used leather boot stuck out
through a knothole.

Mary refused to take an interest in the boot. It was high time we went
home. She herself had a headache. Our mother would be angry with her for
taking us on the forbidden farm. She was sorry she had done so. No, she
wasn't angry. We were good children; she loved us. Wouldn't we come?

"I'll tell you," said she, and her face, which looked sick and pale,
colored, "if you'll come now, and hurry, we'll just have time to stop on
the bridge and have some races."

And sure enough, when we got to the bridge Mary produced a stained sheet
of paper, and tore it quickly into little bits of pieces (we were
pressed for time) and launched pair after pair of sea-going racers upon
the swirling tide.

When the last pair were gone upon their merry career she drew a long
breath, and seemed as one relieved of a weight.

"Perhaps," she said, "you needn't tell your mother where you've
been--unless she asks you. Do you think that would be wrong?"