gold with dinky little ivy leaves crawlin' out over the
edges of the cups. I play I am at the seashore and the
tide is comin' in o'er and o'er the sand and 'round and
'round the land, far as eye can see--that's out of a
book. I put all the dishes into the big dish pan, and I
pertend the tide is risin' on them, though it's just me
pourin' on the water. The cups are the boys and the
saucers are the girls, the plates are the fathers and
mothers and the butter chips are the babies. Then I rush
in to save them, but not until they cry 'Lord save us,
we perish!' Of course, I yell it for them, good and loud
too--people don't just squawk at a time like that--it
often scares Mrs. Evans even yet. I save the babies first,
I slush them around to clean them, but they never notice
that, and I stand them up high and dry in the drip-pan.
Then I go in after the girls, and they quiet down the
babies in the drip-pan; and then the mothers I bring out,
and the boys and the fathers. Sometimes some of the men
make a dash out before the women, but you bet I lay them
back in a hurry. Then I set the ocean back on the stove,
and I rub the babies to get their blood circlin' again,
and I get them all put to bed on the second shelf and
they soon forget they were so near death's door."

Mary Ducker had finished the "Java March" and "Mary's
Pet Waltz," and had joined the interested group on the
lawn and now stood listening in dull wonder.

"I rub them all and shine them well," Pearl went on, "and
get them all packed off home into the china cupboard,