I particularly remember one wild, snowy afternoon, soon after my
return in January: the children had all come up from dinner,
loudly declaring that they meant 'to be naughty;' and they had well
kept their resolution, though I had talked myself hoarse, and
wearied every muscle in my throat, in the vain attempt to reason
them out of it. I had got Tom pinned up in a corner, whence, I
told him, he should not escape till he had done his appointed task.
Meantime, Fanny had possessed herself of my work-bag, and was
rifling its contents--and spitting into it besides. I told her to
let it alone, but to no purpose, of course. 'Burn it, Fanny!'
cried Tom: and THIS command she hastened to obey. I sprang to
snatch it from the fire, and Tom darted to the door. 'Mary Ann,
throw her desk out of the window!' cried he: and my precious desk,
containing my letters and papers, my small amount of cash, and all
my valuables, was about to be precipitated from the three-storey
window. I flew to rescue it. Meanwhile Tom had left the room, and
was rushing down the stairs, followed by Fanny. Having secured my
desk, I ran to catch them, and Mary Ann came scampering after. All
three escaped me, and ran out of the house into the garden, where
they plunged about in the snow, shouting and screaming in exultant
glee.

What must I do? If I followed them, I should probably be unable to
capture one, and only drive them farther away; if I did not, how
was I to get them in? And what would their parents think of me, if
they saw or heard the children rioting, hatless, bonnetless,
gloveless, and bootless, in the deep soft snow? While I stood in
this perplexity, just without the door, trying, by grim looks and
angry words, to awe them into subjection, I heard a voice behind
me, in harshly piercing tones, exclaiming, -