At this sally Sylvia laughed louder than ever; but perceiving my distress, she observed, in a kind tone: "Never mind, Miss Amy, we can't help laughing, you know--and you'll laugh too, when you git out of this here mess. But we do really feel sorry for you, for you look reel awful; I only hope old missus won't come in and ketch you." But in a few moments the kind face of Aunt Henshaw looked into the scene of distress which the kitchen had now become, and surprise at my appearance rendered her almost speechless. But she soon recovered herself; and under her direction I was immersed in a tub of water, while my unfortunate clothes were consigned to the same fate. After this ceremony I was advised to go to bed; and thither I accordingly repaired, thinking how forlorn it was to fall into the pig-pen on such a beautiful evening. The whole household seemed disposed to bear in mind that unfortunate occurrence; when about to fall into mischief, Aunt Henshaw would say in a peculiar tone: "Remember the pig-pen, Amy!" or, when troubling Sylvia, it would be; "I guess you learned that in the pig-pen, Miss Amy;" and even Holly took up the burden of the song, till I heartily wished that she had taken the plunge instead of myself. Before long they all discovered that I was very prone to such scrapes; I dropped a very nice hat down the well, which, for fear of its spoiling the water, they spent a great deal of time in fishing up--I fell from the mow, but fortunately sustained no injury; and Sylvia one day caught me skimming off the cream--an amusement which I considered very innocent, but she speedily undeceived me. CHAPTER XII. Two or three weeks passed on very pleasantly, and I began to think it time to write a letter home. I had made but little progress in the art, and letter-writing always appeared to me a great undertaking; but Aunt Henshaw, having one afternoon provided me with pen, ink, and paper, and elevated me nicely with the large Bible and my "Pilgrim's Progress," I sat biting the end of my quill, and pondering over some form of commencement. I had already written "dear mother" at the top; at length I added after considerable reflection: "I am well, and hope that you are the same. It is very pleasant here. No more at present from Your affectionate Daughter, AMY." Aunt Henshaw pronounced this "very well--what was of it;" and Cousin Statia smiled, though I could not well why; but her smiles were so few and far between that they always set me a wondering. The letter was sealed, however, and enclosed in a larger one of Aunt Henshaw's, who probably gave a more detailed account of matters and things than I had given.