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The Story Girl

An Old Proverb With A New Meaning
It was half-past five when we boys got up the next morning. We were joined on the stairs
by Felicity, yawning and rosy.
"Oh, dear me, I overslept myself. Uncle Roger wanted breakfast at six. Well, I suppose
the fire is on anyhow, for the Story Girl is up. I guess she got up early to knead the bread.
She couldn't sleep all night for worrying over it."
The fire was on, and a flushed and triumphant Story Girl was taking a loaf of bread from
the oven.
"Just look," she said proudly. "I have every bit of the bread baked. I got up at three, and it
was lovely and light, so I just gave it a right good kneading and popped it into the oven.
And it's all done and out of the way. But the loaves don't seem quite as big as they should
be," she added doubtfully.
"Sara Stanley!" Felicity flew across the kitchen. "Do you mean that you put the bread
right into the oven after you kneaded it without leaving it to rise a second time?"
The Story Girl turned quite pale.
"Yes, I did," she faltered. "Oh, Felicity, wasn't it right?"
"You've ruined the bread," said Felicity flatly. "It's as heavy as a stone. I declare, Sara
Stanley, I'd rather have a little common sense than be a great story teller."
Bitter indeed was the poor Story Girl's mortification.
"Don't tell Uncle Roger," she implored humbly.
"Oh, I won't tell him," promised Felicity amiably. "It's lucky there's enough old bread to
do to-day. This will go to the hens. But it's an awful waste of good flour."
The Story Girl crept out with Felix and me to the morning orchard, while Dan and Peter
went to do the barn work.
"It isn't ANY use for me to try to learn to cook," she said.
"Never mind," I said consolingly. "You can tell splendid stories."
"But what good would that do a hungry boy?" wailed the Story Girl.
"Boys ain't ALWAYS hungry," said Felix gravely. "There's times when they ain't."
 
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