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Goody-Naughty Book, The

<h3>"WILLIE WON'T"</h3></div> It was baking day at Willie Wright's house. Willie was on hand, as usual, to scrape the dish and tease for raisins. Suddenly Jennie the cook threw up her hands. "Oh, dear," she cried, "I forgot to order baking powder! Willie, will you—" Bang! went the door, and off ran Willie down the path, with Laddie at his heels. "I won't go to the store!" he grumbled. "Wil-lie!" called Jennie from the house. "Won't, won't, won't!" Willie screamed. The next-door pussy was sunning herself in the Wrights' yard. "Sic 'em, Laddie!" cried Willie. "Wow-wow!" barked Laddie joyously. "S-s-s-t!" spit pussy, scurrying to the top of the pump. "Wil-lie-e-e!" Willie dropped down beside the fence, out of Jennie's sight. "She c'n go herself," he said. Laddie cuddled down beside him. It was warm in the sun, and the locusts were droning drowsily in the grass. "Oo-ff! Oo-ff! Oo-ff!" snored Laddie. Willie nodded—and nodded—and nodded. "Ho-ho!" came a voice over the fence. "Willie Won't! That's a funny name!" "Funny!" retorted another voice. "It's ugly. Willie Will would be far nicer." "Nobody named Willie Will would ever set a dog on a cat," came a third voice. "No," said a fourth, "nor run off and hide when there are errands to do." And then the four began to sing— <table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> <tr><td>"Willie Won't's a horrid boy!</td></tr> <tr><td>No one will like him till</td></tr> <tr><td>He helps when people want him to</td></tr> <tr><td>And turns to Willie Will."</td></tr> </table> Willie jumped to his feet and looked around. The neighbors' sunflowers nodded solemnly over the fence. "Willie Will," they seemed to urge. Willie started for the house. "Willie Will," he echoed, as he went up the path. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng06.jpg" alt="" title="" /> </div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng07.jpg" alt="She sat on the couch and sulked because she could not go out to play with Little Sister" title="" /> She sat on the couch and sulked because she could not go out to play with Little Sister</div> <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <h3>MOLLIE AND THE POUTS</h3></div> Until the Pouts got to work on Mollie she was a very pretty little girl. But when she sat on the couch and sulked, and sulked, and sulked because she could not go out to play with Little Sister, the Pouts turned her into a very ugly little girl indeed. "Ouch! You hurt!" cried a little voice, just as a Pout drew Mollie's mouth down at the corners. Mollie started. She had forgotten that she was holding Dear Doll Dainty by the arm, and she let go of her in her surprise. "Well!" cried Dear Doll Dainty. "It's a wonder that fall didn't break my head. Why didn't you lay me nicely on the couch? My, what a sour face!" With that, Dear Doll Dainty stepped up to her own special trunk, which stood open in the center of the floor, and put on her hat and slipped into her coat. "Wh-what are you going to do?" asked Mollie, staring. "Going away, of course. I don't care to belong to a little girl with the Pouts." Dear Doll Dainty walked to the door. "Wait a minute, Dear Doll Dainty," squeaked the rabbits that were capering around the top of the wall; "we're coming too." And with a great scurry, down slid the bunnies. "We're tired of trying to make a cross little girl happy." "So are we," added the roses on the curtains sweetly, as they let themselves down by their thorns and walked to the door on their stems. "And we." The pillows Mollie's impatient little fists had punched dropped to the floor and started off. The trunk slammed down its lid and followed the pillows, the bureau followed the trunk, the book Mollie had thrown on the floor followed the bureau. "Pardon me," said a deep voice, "but I am tired of being sat on and having heels dug into me!" Up went the couch. Bump! went Mollie on the floor. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng08.jpg" alt="" title="" /> </div> The couch walked clumsily to the door. It couldn't get through. "Tee-hee-hee!" giggled Mollie. The Pouts took to their heels. "Tee-hee—" Mollie stopped laughing and looked around in amazement. Everything in the room was just as it ought to be, except that she and Dear Doll Dainty were both on the floor. But Mollie thought the rabbits winked at her as she laid Dear Doll Dainty gently on the couch and put the book in its place on the table. <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <h3>INDIAN HUGHIE</h3></div> Hughie had always wanted to be an Indian. One day he told his mamma about it. "Well," she said, "why not be an Indian?" Hughie looked down at his little blue suit and his low shoes. "I can't be an Indian," he said. "I haven't any bow and arrow 'r—'r anything Indians have. And anyway, little boys can't be Indians." "Oh, yes, they can," said his mamma. "Indians are strong and brave. Any little boy can be that. How do you do, Chief Hughie?" she added, with a low bow. Hughie drew himself up until he was at least an inch taller. "Heap—heap strong and brave, thank you," he said gravely. That very day Hughie's mamma bought him a bow and arrow. Then Hughie felt himself a real Indian indeed. But Chief Hughie grew tired of shooting at a mark with his new bow and arrow. It would be much more fun, he thought, to shoot at something that moved. Just as he thought that, a bird flew up from the snowball bush. Chief Hughie hastily slipped an arrow into his bow. Bing! it went, toward the bird. "Hughie!" Hughie turned around. "Chief Hughie," he corrected, politely. "No," said his mamma, "not Chief Hughie. Squaw Hughie! Chiefs are strong and brave. Chief Hughie would never shoot at a dear little bird. Only a cowardly Indian, a squaw Indian, would do that." She came down the path and took away Hughie's bow and arrow. "Squaws don't carry weapons," she said. Hughie threw himself down on his stomach and screamed with anger. "Squaws cry," said his mamma. She walked back to the house, leaving Hughie sitting on the grass. He was wondering how long it would take for a squaw to become a chief once more. <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <h3>"I FORGOT"</h3></div> Inside of little Jean there lived a naughty imp. His name was "I Forgot." One time this imp made Jean do a very wicked thing. Jean owned a canary, named Goldie because of his golden feathers. Whenever Jean came into the room where his cage hung, Goldie would pour out a flood of song. But one morning when Jean came in there was no flood of song from the yellow throat. The tiny singer lay still on the bottom of his cage. Jean slipped in her hand in alarm and drew out her little pet. "Mamma, mamma," she cried, "something's the matter with Goldie!" The imp "I Forgot" laughed as he heard her, but Jean's mamma did not laugh. She knew about "I Forgot," and she laid her hand tenderly on Goldie's little body, all thin under the fluff of feathers. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng09.jpg" alt="Jean slipped her hand into the cage and drew out Goldie" title="" /> Jean slipped her hand into the cage and drew out Goldie</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng10.jpg" alt="" title="" /> </div> "Goldie has starved to death, Jean," she said sadly. "Why didn't you feed him?" "I f-forgot!" sobbed the little girl. "Forgot! Poor Goldie!" Jean's mamma stroked the golden feathers. "It's too bad, Jean, that you couldn't remember to do that one small thing for Goldie when he did so much for you, with his songs and his cheer." Jean's tears fell fast. Her mamma looked thoughtfully at the bird. "We can do nothing more for Goldie," she said at last, "but I have thought of a way you can help other birds for his sake, Jean." Jean wiped her eyes. "How?" she asked. Jean felt happier when her mamma had explained the way to her. And if you should pass Jean's house some morning before breakfast, you could see the way for yourself. For every day Jean scatters crumbs and grain on the lawn for the birds and puts fresh water in their drinking bowl. "For Goldie's sake," she whispers to herself, as the birds fly down for their breakfast. As for the naughty imp "I Forgot," he is fast turning into the lovely fairy "I Remember." <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <h3>HOW SAMMY WAS CURED</h3></div> Sammy was a pretty good boy in some ways, but in one way he was a very naughty boy indeed. He never got up when he was called. "Ye-aw-w-w!" he would yawn. "Uh-huh!" And with that he would roll over and go fast asleep again. This always happened at least three times every morning. Often it happened more times. Then when everybody was out of patience and breakfast was nearly over, Sammy would come creeping down, digging his fists into his eyes and still yawning "Ye-aw-w-w!" One morning Sammy's father had just called him the second time, and Sammy had grunted "Ye-aw-w-w!" and turned over for another nap, when the door opened softly. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng11.jpg" alt="Sammy didn't see the little man with twinkling eyes and queer clothes who entered the room" title="" /> Sammy didn't see the little man with twinkling eyes and queer clothes who entered the room</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng12.jpg" alt="" title="" /> </div> Creep, creep, creep, came quiet steps. But Sammy didn't see the little man with twinkling eyes and queer clothes enter the room. He didn't know that the little man lifted him out of bed, slipped him quickly into a sack, and swung him over his shoulder. Sammy was too fast asleep to know anything. "Crickety, flickety, fle-flo-fli!" cried the little man. And away they flew, straight through the window! And still Sammy slept. He didn't know he was not in his own bed till the little man slipped him out of the sack and gave him a shake. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng13.jpg" alt="You're the little boy that never gets up when he's called" title="" /> You're the little boy that never gets up when he's called</div> "Ye-aw-w-w!" muttered Sammy sleepily. "So you are Sammy Sleepyhead!" a loud voice interrupted him. Sammy woke up so quickly that he bit his tongue. "I know you. You're the little boy that never gets up when he's called." Sammy looked about him in surprise. He was in a room filled with the queerest little men he had ever seen, men with funny clothes and twinkly eyes; while right in front of him on a throne sat a very splendid person. Sammy knew by his robes and his crown that this splendid person must be a king. Sammy had never before seen a real king. He opened his mouth in awe. The king thought Sammy was going to yawn. "No yawning here!" he cried, giving Sammy a sharp little rap with his scepter. "This is the Land of the Wide-Awakes. We always wake up the sleepy people." And then, just because he knew he mustn't, Sammy yawned. "Ye-aw-w-w!" he said, so loud that it frightened him, and he clapped his hand quickly over his mouth. But the king had heard him. "Sleepy Cure Number One, men!" he cried. The men in the funny clothes at once formed in two lines, facing each other and twinkling more than ever. "Sammy Sleepyhead, step forward between the lines," commanded the king sternly. Sammy saw each queer little man pull a small paddle from his pocket. His knees were shaking with fear, but he dared not disobey. "Run!" ordered the king. Sammy started. Spat! went the first paddle. "Ouch!" screamed Sammy. "Faster!" cried the king. Spat! Spat! Spat! went the paddles as he ran. "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" screamed Sammy. "Done!" cried the king, as Sammy, breathless and crying, reached the end of the lines. "Awake? Cured?" inquired the king. "Uh—uh—uh-huh!" hiccoughed Sammy, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his nightie. "No, you're not," cried the king. "Only sleepyheads say 'Uh-huh.' Cure Number Two!" Poor Sammy stood, scared and crying, while the little men, grinning broadly now, brought big sponges dripping with water. "Squeeze!" cried the king. Squash! went the first sponge, right over Sammy's head. "Ugh!" screamed Sammy as the ice-cold water poured down his back. "Ugh! Ugh!" The next little man stepped up, lifted his sponge, started to squeeze it, then changed his mind. "Crickety, flickety, fle-flo-fli!" he cried instead. The next thing Sammy knew, he was standing in his own bathtub, wet and shivering. His father stood beside him, holding a big dipper. "Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" gasped Sammy, while the water dripped from his yellow head. "I'm sorry, Sammy," said his father, handing him a towel. "But we can't have any more of this nonsense about getting up. This will happen every time you have to be called more than once. Dry yourself now, and hurry into your clothes." Sammy gulped and nodded. He couldn't think of anything to say just then. But he did as his father told him to, and never once dug his fists into his eyes or said "Ye-aw-w-w." The next day he joined the Wide-Awakes. Sammy Sleepyhead was cured. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng14.jpg" alt="" title="" /> </div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng15.jpg" alt="Mary Jane came back with her pail full of water" title="" /> Mary Jane came back with her pail full of water</div> <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <h3>THE GOING-TO CLUB</h3></div> The Going-To Club had only one member. Bobby Brant was that member. In fact, Bobby was the club. It was his mother who named him the Going-To Club. It always took at least two askings to get Bobby to do anything. Sometimes it took three or four. Bobby was always "going to." This club always met when there was something Bobby wanted particularly to do; and it met most often in the spring, when the boys were out flying their kites. In the spring nobody could get Bobby to do anything. One spring Bobby had a very fine new kite that he and his father had made together. They named it the Skylark, because they thought it would fly higher than any of the other kites. But something was wrong. Instead of sailing up gracefully, as it should, the first time Bobby tried to fly it, the Skylark pitched about so violently that Bobby had to wind it in. Just then he heard Mary Jane calling, "Bobby, will you get me some water?" "All right," cried Bobby. "I wonder what ails it," he added, as he turned the kite about. "Bob-by-y!" "I'm going to," answered the Going-To Club impatiently, and straightway forgot all about it. Pretty soon Mary Jane came down the path with the water pail. Mary Jane had little brothers. Perhaps she could tell what was the matter. "Mary Jane," said Bobby, "my kite won't fly straight. Will you help me fix it?" A naughty twinkle came into Mary Jane's eyes. "All right, Bobby," she said, and went on to the well. "Will you?" urged Bobby, as she came back with her pail full. "I'm going to, Bobby." Bobby followed Mary Jane to the house. "Mary Jane——" <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng16.jpg" alt="Mary Jane dried, her hands and picked up the kite" title="" /> Mary Jane dried, her hands and picked up the kite</div> Mary Jane set down the pail and went on with her washing. "I'm going to," she promised. Rub-a-dub! Rub-a-dub! Rub-a-dub! went the clothes. "Mary Jane——" And this time Mary Jane dried her hands and picked up the kite. "Tail's too long," she said. "And, by the way, Bobby," she added with a laugh, "what do you think about the Going-To Club now?" Bobby grinned and hung his head. <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <h3>WHEN P'RAPSY SAID "YES"</h3></div> P'rapsy Perrin was never quite certain about things. She always said "P'raps" instead of "Yes," or "No." That's how she came to be called P'rapsy. But there was one thing P'rapsy was certain about—she loved to go barefoot; and just as soon as the first warm spring day came, P'rapsy teased to take off her shoes and stockings. But Mrs. Perrin only laughed. "You'll catch cold, P'rapsy. And you know what you have to take when you get sick." P'rapsy thought of the big white bottle on the bathroom shelf, and stopped teasing. But she didn't forget. That afternoon Mrs. Perrin went out to make some calls. "Be a good girl, P'rapsy," she said as she left the house. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng18.jpg" alt="You'll take cold," finally ventured the biggest little girl" title="" /> You'll take cold," finally ventured the biggest little girl</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng17.jpg" alt="" title="" /> </div> "Yessum," promised P'rapsy. But she must have added "P'raps" inside; for she ran straight to the back yard and called to the two little girls next door. "Yoo-hoo!" she cried. "Come on over and go wading." A pool of water had been left in the hollow of the yard by the heavy spring rains. "Dare you!" it seemed to twinkle up at P'rapsy. "Oo-o-o, I dassent!" cried the biggest little girl, carefully smoothing down her stiff, clean dress. "Oo-o-o, I dassent!" echoed the littlest little girl. P'rapsy eyed them scornfully as she took off her shoes and stockings and splashed into the pool. "'Fraid cats!" she jeered. "'Fraid cats! 'Fraid cats! 'Fraid cats!" The little girls watched P'rapsy in scared silence. "You'll take cold," finally ventured the biggest little girl. "P'raps I will," retorted P'rapsy. "You're getting wet," said the littlest little girl. P'rapsy only sniffed. But it wasn't so very much fun, after all. P'rapsy kept hearing, "Be a good girl, P'rapsy." "Yessum." When she had proved that she, at least, was not a 'fraid cat, P'rapsy splashed out. "You needn't tell," she cried over her shoulder, as her bare feet twinkled back to the house. That night Mrs. Perrin heard strange sounds in P'rapsy's room: "Ker-choo! Ker-choo! Ker-choo!" She went to the door. P'rapsy was sitting up in bed. "I'b dot sick, babba," she explained. "I'b just—ker-choo!" Mrs. Perrin left the room. When she returned she carried a big white bottle and a spoon. "Do, do, do!" screamed P'rapsy, as her mother poured out the thick, slippery oil. "I'b dot——" What she was "dot" was lost in a gurgle and a splutter as the oil slid down her throat. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng19.jpg" alt="When she returned she carried a big white bottle and a spoon" title="" /> When she returned she carried a big white bottle and a spoon</div> P'rapsy was not happy. She drew the blankets up around her, and buried her head among the pillows. "P'rapsy," said her mother when the dose was down, "you've disobeyed me. Are you sorry?" "P-p-pr—yes!" sobbed P'rapsy under the bedclothes. <hr class="major" /> <div style="margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em"> <h3>WHAT HAPPENED TO WAGGLES</h3></div> Waggles was Jimmie's chum. He was never cross, and he loved Jimmie. And Jimmie loved Waggles, but sometimes Jimmie was cross. It was when he was cross that he tied the can to Waggles's tail. Waggles thought it was a new game, but at his first jump the can bounced up and struck him. This frightened Waggles, and he tried to run away from the horrid, bouncing Thing. But the faster he ran the harder the Thing bounced, and the oftener it struck him. Waggles became wild with fright, and he gasped for breath as he raced along. Suddenly he heard a voice that he loved: "Waggles! Waggles! Waggles!" Waggles stopped running, and dropped, exhausted, at the feet of Jimmie's father. "Poor Waggles!" said Mr. Brown tenderly as he cut the string. "I didn't suppose there was a boy in this town mean enough to do a thing like that." <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng20.jpg" alt="" title="" /> </div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng21.jpg" alt="Waggles thought it was a new game" title="" /> Waggles thought it was a new game</div> Waggles licked his hand and looked up at him gratefully. But Waggles was too much of a gentleman to tell on Jimmie, even if he could have spoken. When Mr. Brown went home Waggles trotted along beside him. "Jimmie," asked Mr. Brown that evening, "who tied that can to Waggles's tail?" Jimmie said nothing, but his face grew red. "Very well," said his father. "A boy who could treat a dog like that, doesn't deserve to have one. I shall give Waggles away." Jimmie was very unhappy. He cried himself to sleep that night. But next morning who should come bounding in but Waggles! He jumped, and barked, and said "I forgive you" in every doggie way that he knew. Jimmie hugged Waggles, and looked wistfully at his father. "Well, Jimmie," said Mr. Brown, "since Waggles has forgiven you, I think I shall have to forgive you, too. Waggles may stay." <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ng22.jpg" alt="TURN OVER" title="" /> TURN OVER</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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