An Indian arrow lay there, too, showing why she had never cried for help, but waited patiently so long for father to come and find her." If Miss Celia expected to see the last bit of hem done when her story ended, she was disappointed; for not a dozen stitches had been taken.
Betty was using her crash towel for a handkerchief, and Bab's lay on the ground as she listened with snapping eyes to the little tragedy.
"Is it true ?" asked Betty, hoping to find relief in being told that it was not.
"Yes; I have seen the tree, and the mound where the fort was, and the rusty buckles in an old farmhouse where other Kilburns live, near the spot where it all happened," answered Miss Celia, looking out the picture of Victoria to console her auditors.
"We'll play that in the old apple-tree.

Betty can scrooch down, and I'll be the father, and put leaves on her, and then I'll be a great Injun and fire at her.

I can make arrows, and it will be fun, won't it ?" cried Bab, charmed with the new drama in which she could act the leading parts.
"No, it won't! I don't like to go in a cobwebby hole, and have you play kill me, I'll make a nice fort of hay, and be all safe, and you can put Dinah down there for Matty.

I don't love her any more, now her last eye has tumbled out, and you may shoot her just as much as yon like." Before Bab could agree to this satisfactory arrangement, Thorny appeared, singing, as he aimed at a fat robin, whose red waistcoat looked rather warm and winterish that August day,-- "So he took up his bow, And he feathered his arrow, And said, 'I will shoot This little cock-sparrow.'" "But he didn't," chirped the robin, flying away, with a contemptuous flirt of his rusty-black tail.
"That is exactly what you must promise not to do, boys.

Fire away at your targets as much as you like, but do not harm any living creature," said Miss Celia, as Ben followed armed and equipped with her own long-unused accoutrements.
"Of course we won't if you say so; but, with a little practice, I could bring down a bird as well as that fellow you read to me about with his woodpeckers and larks and herons," answered Thorny, who had much enjoyed the article, while his sister lamented over the destruction of the innocent birds.
"You'd do well to borrow the Squire's old stuffed owl for a target; there would be some chance of your hitting him, he is so big," said his sister, who always made fun of the boy when he began to brag.
Thorny's only reply was to send his arrow straight up so far out of sight that it was a long while coming down again to stick quivering in the ground near by, whence Sancho brought it in his mouth, evidently highly approving of a game in which he could join.
"Not bad for a beginning.