There's a black grasshopper here, too." "What do you want, anyway ?" asked Gypsy, taking a few spasmodic stitches on a long, white seam; "I'm busy.

I can't talk to little boys when I'm sewing." "Oh, I guess I don't want anythin'clock, very much," said Winnie, folding his arms composedly, as if he had seated himself for the day; "I'm five years old." Down went Gypsy's work, and a whole handful of pink and white blossoms came fluttering into Winnie's eyes.
"How am I going to sew ?" said Gypsy, despairingly; "you're so exactly in the right place to be hit.

I don't believe Mrs.Surly herself could help snowballing you." "Mrs.Surly snowball! Why, I never saw her.

Wouldn't it be just funny ?" "Winnie Breynton, _will_ you please to go away ?" "I say, Gypsy,--if you cut off a grasshopper's wings, and frow him in a milk-pan, what would he do ?" remarked Winnie, inclining to metaphysics, as was Winnie's custom when he wasn't wanted.

Gypsy took several severe stitches, and made no answer.
"Gypsy--if somebody builded a fire inside of me and made steam, couldn't I draw a train of cars ?" "Look here--Gyp., when a cat eats up a mouse----" Winnie forgot what he was aiming at, just there, coughed, and began again.
"Samson could have drawed a train of cars, anyway." "Oh, Winnie Breynton!" "Well, if he had a steam-leg, he'd be jest as good as an engine--_wouldn't_ I like to seen him!" Just then a branch struck Winnie's head with decidedly more emphasis than the handful of blossoms, and Winnie slid to the ground, and remarked, with dignity, that he was sorry he couldn't stay longer.