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Flyaway, who knew she had a good right to the ribbon, pressed her eyelids together slowly. "If I's Gracie," said she, severely, "I'd make aprons; if I's mamma I'd sew dresses; if I's Flywer, I'd do just's I want to." And then she went on sewing; without any thimble. "Girls, have you guessed yet why a wheelbarrow is like a potato?" "No, Horace; why is it?" "O, I was in hopes you could tell.
A gust of wind lifted the frizzles on Dinah's forehead, but that was all. "O dee, dee, dee! you don't hear nuffin 't all, Diny," said Flyaway the only sensible remark she had made that day. It was of no use talking to Dinah; so she began to talk to herself. "What you matter, Flywer Clifford?" said she, scowling to keep her courage up. "What you matter?"
Didn't say a word, and the prayer-man kep' a-talkin' all the time; why for? Flywer didn't talk; no indeed. Folks mus'n't. If folks did, then the man would come down out the chimley and tell the other bodies to carry 'em home. 'Cause it's the holy Sabber-day, and that's what is it." Flyaway's airy brain went dancing round and round.
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