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Sara clapped her hands again, and this time no harm was done; for her cheek-dimples were safe in the dimple-holder, and her hand-dimples were on the outside, so that the clapping only jarred them a little. It was funny, she thought, that Schlorge scorned to work on hand-dimples, and even the Snimmy scarcely noticed them. But it didn't worry her. Avrillia that was it.
"Well," she said aloud, "I'm glad they're cheek-dimples, anyhow. But what in the world shall I do about the onions?" "What in Zeelup," corrected the Teacup gently, counting her stitches. "Milder than swearing, my dear, more becoming, and quite as effective." Sara wanted to tell her she wasn't swearing, but just at that moment the wife of the Snimmy remarked, with some disgust in her voice,
"Under the gright Gugollaph-tree The Dimplesmithy stands; The smith is harder than the sea And softer than the lands; He mends cheek-dimples frank and free, But will not work on hands." And as soon as he had finished he started wildly down the path again, shouting back, "Bring 'em to the shop!" Sara sat looking down the path, then at the dimples in her hand.
Plainly she was a child of the American wilderness, a daughter of old Vincennes on the Wabash in the time that tried men's souls. "Jump, Jean!" she cried, her face laughing with a show of cheek-dimples, an arching of finely sketched brows and the twinkling of large blue-gray eyes. "Jump high and get them!"
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