seed her she wuz des walkin’ ’roun’ here like she wuz gwine ter tromple on me. I laid low, I did.”

Sweetest Susan clasped her hands together and cried: “Oh, wasn’t it a dream, Drusilla? Did it all happen sure enough?”

Drusilla shook her head wildly. “How kin we bofe have de same kind er dream? I seed de ’oman gwine on, en you seed ’er gwine on. Uh-uh! Don’t talk ter me ’bout no dreams.”

The whole matter was settled when Buster John cried out from the next room: “What fuss was that you were making in there last night, squealing and squeaking?”

The matter was soon explained to Buster John, and after breakfast the children went out and sat on the big wood-pile and talked it all over. The boy asked a hundred questions, but still his curiosity was not satisfied.

All this time the birds were singing in the trees and the wood-sawyers sawing in the pine logs. Jo-reeter, jo-reeter, jo-ree! sang the birds. Craik, craik, craik, went the wood-sawyers.

SWEETEST SUSAN WAKING UP

“There are fifty dozen of them,” said Buster John.

“Fifty-five thousand you’d better say,” replied Sweetest Susan. “Just listen!”

“No needs ter listen,” cried Drusilla. “You’d hear ’em ef you plugged up yo’ years.”

Buster John put his knife-blade under a thick piece of pine bark and pried it up to find one of the busy sawyers. The bark was strong, but presently it seemed to come up of its own accord, and out jumped the queerest little man they had ever seen or even heard of except in make-believe story-books. Buster John dropped his knife, and down it went into the wood-pile. He could hear it go rattling from log to log nearly to the bottom. Sweetest Susan gave a little screech. Drusilla sat bolt upright and exclaimed:—

“You all better come en go see yo’ ma. I want ter see ’er myse’f.”

But there was nothing to be frightened at. The tiny man had brushed the dust and trash from his clothes, and then turned to the children with a good-humored smile. He was not above four inches high. He had on a dress-coat. Drusilla afterward described it as a claw-hammer coat, velveteen knickerbockers, and silver buckles on his shoes. His hat was shaped like a thimble, and he had a tiny feather stuck in the side of it.

“I’m much obliged to you for getting me out of that scrape,” he said with a bow to all the children. “It was a pretty tight place. I stayed out last night just one second and a half too late, and when I went to go home I found the door shut. So I just crawled under the bark there for a nap. The log must have turned in some way, for when I woke up and tried to crawl out I found I couldn’t manage it. I wouldn’t have minded that so much, but just then I saw one of those terrible flat-headed creatures making his way toward me. Why, his head was a sawmill! He was gnawing the wood out of his way and clearing a road to me. I tried to draw my sword, but I couldn’t get it from under me. Then I felt the bark rising. I pushed as hard as I could, and here I am.”

“Ax ’im his name,” said Drusilla in an awe-stricken tone.

“Ah, I forgot,” responded the little man. “I know you, but you don’t know me. My name is Mr. Thimblefinger, and I shall be happy to serve you. Whenever you want me just tap three times on the head of your bed.”

“Thank goodness! I don’t sleep in no bed,” exclaimed Drusilla.

“That makes no difference,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “If you sleep on a pallet just tap on the floor.”

“Please, Mister, don’t talk dat a-way,” pleaded Drusilla, “kase I’ll be constant a-projeckin’ wid dat tappin’, an’ de fus’ time you come I’ll holler fire.”

“Don’t notice her,” said Buster John, “she talks to hear herself talk.”

“I see,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, tapping his forehead significantly and nodding his head.

“You kin nod,” said Drusilla defiantly, “but my head got mo’ in it dan you kin comb out.”

“I believe you!” exclaimed Mr. Thimblefinger, “I believe you!” He spoke so earnestly that Sweetest Susan and Buster John laughed, and Drusilla laughed with them.

“You dropped your knife,” said Mr. Thimblefinger. “I’m sorry of it. I can’t bring it up to you, but I’ll see if I can’t crawl under and get it out.”

With that he leaped nimbly from log to log and disappeared under the wood-pile. The children went down to see what he would do. They were so astonished at his droll appearance that they forgot their curiosity.

“Is that a fairy, brother?” asked Sweetest Susan in a low voice.

“No!” exclaimed Buster John with a lofty air, but not loudly. “Don’t you see he’s not a bit like the fairies we read about in books? Why, he was afraid of a wood-sawyer.”

“That’s so,” Sweetest Susan rejoined.

“He’s a witch, dat what he is,” said Drusilla.

“Shucks!” whispered Buster John. He heard the voice of Mr. Thimblefinger under the wood-pile.

“I’ve found it, I’ve found it!” he cried. And presently he made his appearance, dragging the knife after him. He tugged at it until he got it out, and then he sat down on a chip, wiped the perspiration from his eyes, and fanned himself with a thin flake of pine bark no bigger than a bee’s wing.

“Pick me up and let’s go on top of the wood-pile,” said Mr. Thimblefinger after a while. “It’s suffocating down here. Ouch! don’t tickle me, if you do I shall have a fit.” Buster John had lifted him by placing a thumb and forefinger under his arms. “And don’t squeeze me, neither,” the little man went on. “I was cramped under that bark until I’m as sore as a boil all over. Goodness! I wish I was at home!”

“Where do you live?” asked Sweetest Susan when they were once more seated on the wood-pile.

“Not far from here, not very far,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger, shaking his head sagely, “but it is a different country—oh, entirely different.”

Sweetest Susan edged away from the little man at this, and Drusilla stretched her eyes.

“What is it like?” asked Buster John boldly.

Mr. Thimblefinger reflected a while, and then shook his head. “I can show it to you,” he said, “but I can’t describe it.”

“Pick ’im up an’ show ’im to your ma!” exclaimed Drusilla suddenly.

“No, no, no!” cried Mr. Thimblefinger, leaping to his feet. “That would spoil everything. No grown person living in this country has ever seen me. No, no! don’t try that. It would spoil your luck. I wouldn’t be here now if the Dolls’ Grandmother hadn’t begged me to come with her last night. But I’ll come to see you,”—he pointed at Drusilla. “I’ll come often.”

“I des said dat fer ter see what you’d say,” protested Drusilla. “You wan’ gwine ter take ’im, wuz you, honey?” This question was addressed to Buster John, who scorned to answer it.

“Grown people wouldn’t understand me,” Mr. Thimblefinger explained. “They know a great deal too much to suit me.”

“How do you get to your country?” inquired Buster John, who was keen for an adventure.

“The nearest way is by the spring,” replied Mr. Thimblefinger. “That is the only way you could go.”

“Can I go too?” asked Sweetest Susan. “And Drusilla?”

“Oh, of course,” said Mr.