Billy had just decided to run down to the livery stable to pay Sam Lamb a visit when the gate opened, and Lina and Frances, their beloved dolls in their arms, came skipping in.

Jimmy, who had had a difference with Billy and was in the sulks on his own side of the fence, immediately crawled over and joined the others in the swing. He was lonesome and the prospect of companionship was too alluring for him to nurse his anger longer.

“Aunt Minerva's gone to the Aid Society,” remarked the host. “Don't y' all wish it met ev'y day 'stid 'er jes' meetin' ev'y Monday?”

“Yes, I do,” agreed Frances, “you can have so much fun when our mamas go to the Aid. My mama's gone too, so she left me with Brother and he's writing a love letter to Ruth Shelton, so I slipped off.”

“Mother has gone to the Aid, too,” said Lina.

“My mama too,” chimed in Jimmy, “she goes to the Aid every Monday and to card parties nearly all the time. She telled Sarah Jane to 'tend to me and Sarah Jane's asleep. I hear her snoring. Ain't we glad there ain't no grown folks to meddle? Can't we have fun?”

“What'll we play?” asked Frances, who had deliberately stepped in a mud puddle on the way, and splashed mud all over herself, “let's make mud pies.”

“Naw, we ain't a-going to make no mud pies,” objected Jimmy. “We can make mud pies all time when grown folks 'r' looking at you.”

“Le's's play sumpin' what we ain't never play, sence we 's born,” put in Billy.

“I hope grandmother won't miss me.” said Lina, “she 's reading a very interesting book.”

“Let's play Injun!” yelled Jimmy; “we ain't never play' Injun.”

This suggestion was received with howls of delight.

“My mama's got a box of red stuff that she puts on her face when she goes to the card parties. She never puts none on when she just goes to the Aid. I can run home and get the box to make us red like Injuns,” said Frances.

“My mother has a box of paint, too.”

“I ain't never see Aunt Minerva put no red stuff on her face,” remarked Billy, disappointedly.

“Miss Minerva, she don't never let the Major come to see her, nor go to no card parties is the reason,” explained the younger boy, “she just goes to the Aid where they ain't no men, and you don't hafter put no red on your face at the Aid. We'll let you have some of our paint, Billy. My mama's got 'bout a million diff'ent kinds.”

“We got to have pipes,” was Frances's next suggestion.

“My papa's got 'bout a million pipes,” boasted Jimmy, “but he got 'em all to the office, I spec'.”

“Father has a meerschaum.”

“Aunt Minerva ain't got no pipe.”

“Miss Minerva's 'bout the curiousest woman they is,” said Jimmy; “she ain't got nothing a tall; she ain't got no paint and she ain't got no pipe.”

“Ladies don't use pipes, and we can do without them anyway,” said Lina, “but we must have feathers; all Indians wear feathers.”

“I'll get my mama's duster,” said Jimmy.

“Me, too,” chimed in Frances.

Here Billy with flying colors came to the fore and redeemed Miss Minerva's waning reputation.

“Aunt Minerva's got a great, big buncher tu'key feathers an' I can git 'em right now,” and the little boy flew into the house and was back in a few seconds.

“We must have blankets, of course,” said Lina, with the air of one whose word is law; “mother has a genuine Navajo.”

“I got a little bow'narruh what Santa Claus bringed me,” put in Jimmy.

“We can use hatchets for tomahawks,” continued the little girl. “Come on, Frances; let us go home and get our things and come back here to dress up. Run, Jimmy, get your things! You, too, Billy!” she commanded.

The children ran breathlessly to their homes nearby and collected the different articles necessary to transform them into presentable Indians. They soon returned, Jimmy dumping his load over the fence and tumbling after; and the happy quartette sat down on the grass in Miss Minerva's yard. First the paint boxes were opened and generously shared with Billy, as with their handkerchiefs they spread thick layers of rouge over their charming, bright, mischievous little faces.

The feather decoration was next in order.

“How we goin' to make these feathers stick?” asked Billy.

They were in a dilemma till the resourceful Jimmy came to the rescue.

“Wait a minute,” he cried, “I'll be back 'fore you can say 'Jack Robinson'.”

He rolled over the fence and was back in a few minutes, gleefully holding up a bottle.

“This muc'lage'll make 'em stick,” he panted, almost out of breath.

Lina assumed charge of the head-dresses. She took Billy first, rubbed the mucilage well into his sunny curls, and filled his head full of his aunt's turkey feathers, leaving them to stick out awkwardly in all directions and at all angles. Jimmy and Frances, after robbing their mothers' dusters, were similarly decorated, and last, Lina, herself, was tastefully arrayed by the combined efforts of the other three.

At last all was in readiness.

Billy, regardless of consequences, had pinned his aunt's newest grey blanket around him and was viewing, with satisfied admiration, its long length trailing on the-grass behind him; Lina had her mother's treasured Navajo blanket draped around her graceful little figure; Frances, after pulling the covers off of several beds and finding nothing to suit her fanciful taste, had snatched a gorgeous silk afghan from the leather couch in the library. It was an expensive affair of intricate pattern, delicate stitches; and beautiful embroidery with a purple velvet border and a yellow satin lining. She had dragged one corner of it through the mud puddle and torn a big rent in another place.

Jimmy was glorious in a bright red blanket, carrying his little bow and arrow.

“I'm going to be the Injun chief,” he boasted.

“I'm going to be a Injun chief, too,” parroted Frances.

“Chief, nothing!” he sneered, “you all time trying to be a Injun chief. You 'bout the pompousest little girl they is. You can't be a chief nohow; you got to be a squash, Injun ladies 'r' name' squashes; me an' Billy's the chiefs. I'm name' old Setting Bull, hi'self.”

“You can't be named 'Bull,' Jimmy,” reproved Lina, “it isn't genteel to say 'bull' before people.”

“Yes, I am too,” he contended. “Setting Bull's the biggest chief they is and I'm going to be name' him.”

“Well, I am not going to play then,” said Lina primly, “my mother wants me to be genteel, and 'bull' is not genteel.”

“I tell you what, Jimmy,” proposed Frances, “you be name' 'Setting Cow. 'Cow' is genteel 'cause folks milk 'em.”

“Naw, I ain't going to be name' no cow, neither,” retorted the little Indian, “you all time trying to 'suade somebody to be name' 'Setting Cow'.”

“He can't be name' a cow,”—Billy now entered into the discussion—“'cause he ain't no girl. Why don' you be name' 'Settin' Steer'? Is 'steer' genteel, Lina?” he anxiously inquired.

“Yes, he can be named 'Sitting Steer',” she granted. Jimmy agreeing to the compromise, peace was once more restored.

“Frances and Lina got to be the squashes,” he began.

“It isn't 'squashes,' it is 'squaws,”' corrected Lina.

“Yes, 'tis squashes too,” persisted Jimmy, “'cause it's in the Bible and Miss Cecilia 'splained it to me and she's 'bout the high-steppingest 'splainer they is. Me and Billy is the chiefs,” he shouted, capering around, “and you and Frances is the squashes and got to have papooses strop' to your back.”

“Bennie Dick can be a papoose,” suggested Billy.

“I'm not going to be a Injun squash if I got to have a nigger papoose strapped to my back!” cried an indignant Frances. “You can strap him to your own back, Billy.”

“But I ain't no squash,” objected that little Indian.

“We can have our dolls for papooses,” said Lina, going to the swing where the dolls had been left. Billy pulled a piece of string from his pocket and the babies were safely strapped to their mothers' backs. With stately tread, headed by Sitting Steer, the children marched back and forth across the lawn in Indian file.

So absorbed were they in playing Indian that they forgot the flight of time until their chief suddenly stopped, all his brave valor gone as he pointed with trembling finger up the street.

That part of the Ladies' Aid Society which lived in West Covington was bearing down upon them.

“Yonder's our mamas and Miss Minerva,” he whispered. “Now look what a mess Billy's done got us in; he all time got to perpose someping to get chillens in trouble and he all time got to let grown folks ketch em.”

“Aren't you ashamed to tell such a story, Jimmy Garner?” cried Frances. “Billy didn't propose any such thing. Come on, let's run,” she suggested.

“'Tain't no use to run,” advised Jimmy. “They're too close and done already see us. We boun' to get what's coming to us anyway, so you might jus' as well make 'em think you ain't 'fraid of 'em. Grown folks got to all time think little boys and girls 'r' skeered of 'em, anyhow.”

“Aunt Minerva'll sho' put me to bed this time,” said Billy. “Look like ev'y day I gotter go to bed.”

“Mother will make me study the catechism all day to-morrow,” said Lina dismally.

“Mama'll lock me up in the little closet under the stairway,” said Frances.

“My mama'll gimme 'bout a million licks and try to take all the hide off o' me,” said Jimmy; “but we done had a heap of fun.”

It was some hours later. Billy's aunt had ruthlessly clipped the turkey feathers from his head, taking the hair off in great patches. She had then boiled his scalp, so the little boy thought, in her efforts to remove the mucilage. Now, shorn of his locks and of some of his courage, the child was sitting quietly by her side, listening to a superior moral lecture and indulging in a compulsory heart-to-heart talk with his relative.

“I don't see that it does you any good, William, to put you to bed.”

“I don' see as it do neither,” agreed Billy.

“I can not whip you; I am constitutionally opposed to corporal punishment for children.”

“I's 'posed to it too,” he assented.

“I believe I will hire a servant, so that I may devote my entire time to your training.”

This prospect for the future did not appeal to her nephew. On the contrary it filled him with alarm.

“A husban' 'd be another sight handier,” he declared with energy; “he 'd be a heap mo' 'count to you 'n a cook, Aunt Minerva. There's that Major—”

“You will never make a preacher of yourself, William, unless you improve.”

The child looked up at her in astonishment; this was the first he knew of his being destined for the ministry.

“A preacher what 'zorts an' calls up mourners?” he said,—“not on yo' tin-type. Me an' Wilkes Booth Lincoln—”

“How many times have I expressed the wish not to have you bring that negro's name into the conversation?” she impatiently interrupted.

“I don' perzactly know, 'm,” he answered good humoredly, “'bout fifty hunerd, I reckon. Anyways, Aunt Minerva, I ain't goin' to be no preacher. When I puts on long pants I's goin' to be a Confedrit Vet'run an' kill 'bout fifty hunderd Yankees an' Injuns, like my Major man.”