Her name was Mary Gray, but they called her Flaxie Frizzle. She had
light curly hair, and a curly nose. That is, her nose curled up at the
end a wee bit, just enough to make it look cunning.
What kind of a child was she?
Well, I don't want to tell; but I suppose I shall have to. She wasn't
gentle and timid and sweet like you little darlings, oh, no! not like
you. And Mrs. Willard, who was there visiting from Boston, said she was
"dreadful."
She was always talking at the table, for one thing.
"Mamma," said she, one day, from her high chair, "your littlest one
doesn't like fish; what makes you cook him?"
Mamma shook her head, but Flaxie wouldn't look at it. Mrs. Willard was
saying, "When we go to ride this afternoon we can stop at the
slate-quarry."
_Who_ was going to ride? And would they take the "littlest one" too?
Flaxie meant to find out.
[Illustration: Flaxie Frizzle.]
"Do you love me, mamma?" said she, beating her mug against her red
waiter.
"When you are a good girl, Flaxie."
"Well, look right in my eyes, mamma. Don't you see I _are_ a good girl?
And _mayn't_ I go a-riding?"
"Eat your dinner, Mary Gray, and don't talk."
Her mother never called her Mary Gray except when she was troublesome.
"I want to tell you sumpin, mamma," whispered she, bending forward and
almost scalding herself against the teapot, "I _won't_ talk; I won't
talk _a_ tall."
But it was of no use. Mrs. Willard was not fond of little girls, and
Mrs. Gray would not take Flaxie; she must stay at home with her sister
Ninny.
Now Ninny--or Julia--was almost ten years old, a dear, good, patient
little girl, who bore with Flaxie's naughtiness, and hardly ever
complained. But this afternoon, at four o'clock, her best friend, Eva
Snow, was coming, and Ninny did hope that by that time her mamma would
be at home again!
Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Willard rode off in the carriage; and the moment they
were gone, Flaxie began to frisk like a wild creature.