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 green, hanging below an equally tattered cotton frock, once purple; her longing eyes fixed on a game of baseball at the corner of the green, till she reaches the cottage door, flings down the mop and the pitcher, and darts off to her comrades, quite regardless of the storm of scolding with which her mother follows her runaway steps.

So the world wags till ten. Then the little damsel gets an admission to the charity-school, and trips mincingly thither every morning, dressed in the old-fashioned blue gown and white cap, and tippet and bib and apron of that primitive institution, looking as demure as a nun, and as tidy; her thoughts fixed on button-holes and spelling-books—those ensigns of promotion—despising dirt, and baseball, and all their joys.

Then at twelve the little lass comes home again, uncapped, untippeted, unschooled; brown as a berry, wild as a colt, busy as a bee; working in the fields, digging in the garden, frying rashers, boiling potatoes, shelling beans, darning stockings, nursing children, feeding pigs—all these employments varied by occasional fits of romping and flirting and childish play, according as the nascent coquetry or the lurking love of sport happens to predominate; merry and pretty, and good with all her little faults. It would be well if a country girl could stand at thirteen. Then she is charming. But the clock of time will