And then she would laugh till the tears came, and wipe her spectacles, for that was just what she had been waiting for you to say all the time, and if you had not said it—but, of course, that was impossible. Always, on the day before you came, she made two little sugar pies in two little round tins with crinkled edges. One was for you, and the other was for Lizbeth. After you had eaten your pies you chased the rooster till he dropped you a white tail-feather in token of surrender, and just tucking the feather into your cap made you an Indian. Grandmother stood at the window and watched you while you scalped the sunflowers. The Indians and tigers at Grandmother’s were wilder than those in Our Yard at home. Being an Indian made you think of tents, and then you remembered Grandmother’s old plaid shawl. She never wore it now, for she had a new one, but she kept it for you in the closet beneath the stairs. While you were gone, it hung in the dark alone, dejected, waiting for you to come back and play. When you came, at last, and dragged it forth, it clung to you warmly, and did everything you said: stretched its frayed length from chair to chair and became a tent for you; swelled proudly in the summer gale till your boat scudded through the surf of waving grass, and you anchored safely, to fish with string and pin, by the Isles of the Red Geraniums. "The pirates are coming," you cried to Lizbeth, scanning the horizon of picket fence. "The pirates are coming," she repeated, dutifully. "And now we must haul up the anchor," you commanded, dragging in the stone. Lizbeth was in terror. "Oh, my poor dolly!" she cried, hushing it in her arms. Gallantly the old plaid shawl caught the breeze; and as it filled, your boat leaped forward through— "Harry! Lizbeth! Come and be washed for dinner!" Grandmother’s voice came out to you across the waters. You hesitated. The pirate ship was close behind. You could see the cutlasses flashing in the sun. "More sugar pies," sang the Grandmother siren on the rocks of the front porch, and at those melting words the pirate ship was a mere speck on the horizon. Seizing Lizbeth by the hand, you ran boldly across the sea. By the white bowl Grandmother took your chin in one hand and lifted your face. "My, what a dirty boy!" With the rough wet rag she mopped the dirt away—grime of your long sea-voyage—while you squinted your eyes and pursed up your lips to keep out the soap. You clung to her apron for support in your mute agony. [Illustration: "YOU CLUNG TO HER APRON FOR SUPPORT IN YOUR MUTE AGONY"]