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And she proceeded to crack, not the stones, but her own little, eager, blundering fingers, instead. O stony, stony-hearted stones and pebbly-hearted pebbles! Tot's cup of bitterness seemed to flow over. She stood up, sobbing. A sudden sense of desolation oppressed her. "I wis' I was at home wiv dwandma. I wis, oh, I wis' I hadn't tum!" she sobbed. Her only thought, now, was to get home.
Down over the blue orbs drifted the snowy lids. Tired little Tot. Where was dwandma and the rest all this time? In trouble and confusion. Calling and searching, searching and calling: "Tot, Tot, Tot, little Tot! Where are you?" Grandpapa and grandmamma, and Uncle Will and Tot's mamma.
"I'se been to Soogar Wiver, and I don't know how to det home aden, I'se so vewy tired, and I toodn't cwack the candy, and I want to see dwandma," and Tot's words ended in a wail of inarticulate woe. "Where do you live?" asked the boy. "A dwate, dwate ways off," answered Tot. "What is your name?" "Tot Lindsay." "Lindsay? O, I know!
"Won't dwandma be glad to get some nice sugar plums? I wis I tood det froo dis fence." Through she got, with much squeezing and rending. Tot eyed her torn pinafore, ruefully. "I wis' 'ittle dirl's aprons wouldn't teep tearing on every single fing." "'Pears to me," doubtfully, putting one little foot down on the soft marshy ground, "it is wather wet." Rather wet? Yes, Totchen, very wet.
Empty and silent stood the little house, like the dwelling of the Three Talking Bears, and little Tot might have been Silver Hair herself. "Dwandma, dwandma!" she called. But no grandmamma replied. "Perhaps she has dus dorn out a minute," thought she. "I'll det up on dis lounge and tover dis shawl over me, and s'prise her when she tums back." Something else besides the shawl covered Tot's eyes.
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