What Katy Did | Page 2

These last legs had joints like the springs to
buggy-tops; and as I watched, they began walking up the rush, and then
I saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. In fact, if I
hadn't been too big, I think I should have heard them creak as they went
along. They didn't say anything so long as I was there, but the moment
my back was turned they began to quarrel again, and in the same old
words--"Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She didn't."
As I walked home I fell to thinking about another Katy,--a Katy I once
knew, who planned to do a great many wonderful things, and in the end
did none of them, but something quite different,--something she didn't
like at all at first, but which, on the whole, was a great deal better than
any of the doings she had dreamed about. And as I thought, this little
story grew in my head, and I resolved to write it down for you. I have
done it; and, in memory of my two little friends on the bulrush, I give it
their name. Here it is--the story of What Katy Did.
Katy's name was Katy Carr. She lived in the town of Burnet, which
wasn't a very big town, but was growing as fast as it knew how. The
house she lived in stood on the edge of the town. It was a large square
house, white, with green blinds, and had a porch in front, over which
roses and clematis made a thick bower. Four tall locust trees shaded the
gravel path which led to the front gate. On one side of the house was an
orchard; on the other side were wood piles and barns, and an ice-house.
Behind was a kitchen garden sloping to the south; and behind that a
pasture with a brook in it, and butternut trees, and four cows--two red
ones, a yellow one with sharp horns tipped with tin, and a dear little
white one named Daisy.
There were six of the Carr children--four girls and two boys. Katy, the
oldest, was twelve years old; little Phil, the youngest, was four, and the
rest fitted in between.
Dr. Carr, their Papa, was a dear, kind, busy man, who was away from

home all day, and sometimes all night, too, taking care of sick people.
The children hadn't any Mamma. She had died when Phil was a baby,
four years before my story began. Katy could remember her pretty well;
to the rest she was but a sad, sweet name, spoken on Sunday, and at
prayer-times, or when Papa was especially gentle and solemn.
In place of this Mamma, whom they recollected so dimly, there was
Aunt Izzie, Papa's sister, who came to take care of them when Mamma
went away on that long journey, from which, for so many months, the
little ones kept hoping she might return. Aunt Izzie was a small woman,
sharp-faced and thin, rather old-looking, and very neat and particular
about everything. She meant to be kind to the children, but they
puzzled her much, because they were not a bit like herself when she
was a child. Aunt Izzie had been a gentle, tidy little thing, who loved to
sit as Curly Locks did, sewing long seams in the parlor, and to have her
head patted by older people, and be told that she was a good girl;
whereas Katy tore her dress every day, hated sewing, and didn't care a
button about being called "good," while Clover and Elsie shied off like
restless ponies when any one tried to pat their heads. It was very
perplexing to Aunt Izzie, and she found it hard to quite forgive the
children for being so "unaccountable," and so little like the good boys
and girls in Sunday-school memoirs, who were the young people she
liked best, and understood most about.
Then Dr. Carr was another person who worried her. He wished to have
the children hardy and bold, and encouraged climbing and rough plays,
in spite of the bumps and ragged clothes which resulted. In fact, there
was just one half-hour of the day when Aunt Izzie was really satisfied
about her charges, and that was the half-hour before breakfast, when
she had made a law that they were all to sit in their little chairs and
learn the Bible verse for the day. At this time she looked at them with
pleased eyes, they were all so spick and span, with such nicely-brushed
jackets and such neatly-combed hair. But the moment the bell rang her
comfort was over. From that time on, they were what she called "not fit
to be seen." The neighbors pitied her very much. They used to count
the sixty