One eventful day, my mother took it into her head to have a quilting.
Early in the afternoon I retired to the garret, as the most isolated spot
I could think of, and ensconced myself in bed. All the girls in the
neighborhood were invited, and I would sooner have faced a flaming line
of armed batteries.
Such a gay, joyous time as they had of it, judging from the sounds of
merriment that occasionally floated up to my retreat! I longed to be a
witness of the frolic I knew they were enjoying, but I could not summon
resolution enough to venture from my concealment; and so I wound the
sheets round my head to shut out the gay peals of laughter, and tried to
think myself highly satisfied with my achievement. I was comfortable and
safe, so far as I knew; but the hours were long ones, and I prayed Time
to jog on his team a little faster, if convenient.
By-and-by, the merriment grew louder; there was a pattering of eager feet
on the garret stairs, considerable loud whispering in the passage, and an
infinite amount of giggling. Good heavens! What were they going to do? I
clutched the bed clothes with frantic hands and drew them around my head,
to the utter neglect of the rest of my body, probably believing, like the
ostrich, that so long as I saw nobody, nobody would see me.
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