Prudy awoke one morning full of mischief. At the second table she split her johnny-cake, and spread it open, saying it was a singing-book, and began to sing out of it,—

Grandma heard her from the next room, and came in very much surprised.

"What shall I do with such a little girl as this?" said she, shaking her finger at Prudy.

"I think," answered the child, "you ought to call me to you and say, 'You been a-singin' to the table, Prudy.' Then I'll say 'Yes'm;' and you'll say, 'Prudy, go right out in the kitchen, and don't let me see you till you come back pleasant.'"

Grandma put her head out of the window a moment, for she didn't want any body to see her smile.

"This is one of Prudy's days," thought she. "I'm really afraid I shall have to punish her before it's over."

Very soon after breakfast the doorbell rang, and a little boy left a note directed to Miss Grace Clifford. It said,—

"Miss Grace Clifford, the Misses Parlin, and Mr. Horace Clifford, are respectfully invited to a gypsy supper in the Pines."

The children hardly knew what it meant.

"What is jispies?" asked Prudy, a little frightened. "Be they up in the Pines?"

"It means a picnic, that's all," said aunt Madge, "and a very nice time you will have."

"A picnic!" screamed all the voices in chorus. It was almost too good to believe. Grace clapped her hands and laughed. Susy ran about the room like a crazy thing. Prudy hopped up and down, and Horace tried to stand on his head.

"Now scamper, every one of you," said aunt Madge, "for I must go right to cooking.—Let's see, you shall have some cunning little sandwiches, some hard-boiled eggs; and what else can you think of, Louise?"

"Stop a minute," said aunt Louise, drawing on a long face, "I hope Susy and Prudy——"

"Tarts and plum-cake!" cried Susy and Grace.

"Oranges, dates, and figs!" said Horace.

"And them little cookies you cut out of a thimble, you know," added Prudy, anxious to put in a word.

"Hear me speak," said aunt Louise. "I hope Susy and Prudy don't think they are going to this picnic, for the truth is, they haven't been invited."

"Not invited?" gasped Susy.

"The note says, 'the Misses Parlin,'" said aunt Louise, gravely. "That might mean your grandmother, but it doesn't! I take it to mean the young ladies, Madge (or Mig) and Louise, your beautiful aunties, who are often called 'the Misses Parlin.' Of course it can't mean two little slips of girls in short dresses!"

Susy burst into tears, and tried to talk at the same time, but nobody could understand her.

"O, O!" moaned Prudy, burying her face in the roller-towel, "if I can't go I shall just lay down my head and cry!"

"It's not true, children, not one word; she's only joking," said aunt Madge, laughing and shaking the egg-beater at her sister. "I'm really ashamed of your aunt Louise for trying to tease you. What do you suppose any body wants of old grown-up folks at your nice little party? There, there, don't laugh quite so loud. Run away, and stay away, if you want me ever to do any thing."

In a few moments the children were playing out of doors in high spirits, and Prudy had told the workmen, in her pretty, lisping way, "that every one of we children were invited to a jispy supper; had a ticket come a-purpose, so of course we should have to go!"

The children were too much excited to do their morning work properly. Grandma could not tell by the looks of the piazza whether Susy had swept it or not, and had to go and ask.

"She's swept it off," said Prudy, speaking for her, "but she didn't sweep it way off!"

"I should judge not," said grandma; "and here is Prudy, with her bib on yet, and Grace hasn't made her bed. Do you think such children ought to go to a party?"

"O, grandma," cried Prudy, "you know we had a ticket come a-purpose!"

"I'm ashamed," said Grace, promptly. "Susy, you and I are too big to act so. Let's go and do up our work right nice, and then see if we can't help grandma."

And off went the two little girls, with beaming faces, trying to make themselves useful.

"What shall I do?" thought Prudy, for every body was at work,—even Horace, who was turning the grindstone for the men.

"I'll dust the parlors, that's what I'll do. It does take aunt Madge so long."

So, with the big feather duster, Prudy made a great stir among the books and ornaments, and at last knocked over a little pitcher and broke its nose.

"You little meddlesome thing," cried aunt Louise, as soon as she knew it, "this is one of your days, I should think!"

"I didn't mean to," cried the child; "I was trying to help."

"Don't say you didn't mean to; you hadn't any business to touch the duster. I shall have to snip your fingers, I do believe."

"Don't," begged the child, "I'll snip my hands, you needn't; I'll snip my hands and get the naughty out."

"They ought to be snipped from now till next Christmas," said aunt Louise, laughing in spite of herself to see the little one set to work with thumb and finger, trying to do her own punishing. "There, there, go off, and be a good girl."

Prudy's bright spirits rose again at these words, and she thought she would keep on trying to make herself useful. It was aunt Madge she wanted to help—good aunt Madge, who was so busy cooking for the gypsy supper.

"I'll feed her bird," thought the child; "he sings as if he was hungry."

Now aunt Madge had fed little Daffy before sunrise, and he was as yellow and happy as a canary can be. But silly little Prudy trotted off after a piece of sponge cake, climbed into a chair, opened the cage door, and swung the cake before his eyes.

Of course Daffy flew out, and one might suppose that was the last of him; but it so happened that the windows were not up.

Prudy ran, in great fright, to tell aunt Madge, and when she opened the door, the cat got in; and such a time as there was, you may imagine. Kitty rushed for the canary, aunt Louise rushed for the kitty, and aunt Madge for the bird. At last, Daffy was caught, and safe in his little home, with only the loss of a few tiny feathers.

"I'd give that child one sound whipping," said aunt Louise.

"Let Madge attend to her," replied grandma; "she will do right, for she knows how to keep her temper."

Louise said nothing, but she felt the rebuke; and as she left the room, there was a bright color in her cheeks.

"Prudy," said aunt Madge, gently, "you didn't mean to open the cage door, did you?"

Prudy remembered that she had been scolded before for saying "I didn't mean to."

"Yes'm, I did," replied she, in a choked voice, "I meant to do it a-purpose."

"I'm really astonished," cried aunt Madge, raising both hands. "Then it's surely my duty to punish you."

"You may," sobbed Prudy. "You may shut me up, and not let me have no dinner, 'cause I ain't hungry. I've been eatin' cake!"

"I think," said aunt Madge, "it would be a better punishment to keep you home from the party."

"O," cried Prudy, eagerly, "wouldn't you rather snip my hands? You can snip 'em with a piece o' whalebone, you know, and switch me all over with a switch, and do every thing to me, if you'll only let me go to the party!"

"I'm afraid you'll forget, unless you're kept at home, Prudy."

"O, no, no; I'll promise truly I won't try to help again, never, never in my world."

"Were you trying to help when you let out the bird?"

"Yes'm, I was. He was singin' for somethin' to eat."

"O, I begin to understand," said aunt Madge, laughing heartily. "So you didn't mean to be a naughty girl after all. I am very glad of that, Prudy, for I couldn't tell what to make of you. But you must never touch the cage again. Little girls that want to help, must ask somebody to tell them what to do. There, now, kiss me, dear, and I'll forgive you, and we won't say any more about your being naughty, if you'll only remember next time."

Prudy laughed, and twinkled off the tears. She was what aunt Madge called a "bird-child," and was never unhappy but a little while at a time.