UPSIDE DOWN; OR, WILL AND WORK. CHAPTER I. THE BLACK-EDGED LETTER. -SHOO! a-shoo! Start your boots! “A Scat, scamper! Clear out, or I'll wring the necks of every one of you. Conscience sake, if I ever see sech torments." Mrs. Down was trying to clear the chickens out of the sitting-room. She flapped her apron, and waved her arms, and scolded herself out of breath; but for one yellow leg she piloted safely through the door, half a dozen rushed past her, and ensconced themselves under the chintz-covered lounge, up the wide-mouthed chimney-place, and in divers other quarters, where experience had taught them they were safe from her attacks. Finally, Mrs. Down reseated herself, and fell to fanning her heated face with a torn book-cover. "I declare," panted she, "I no more get comfortably settled for my afternoon nap, than them pesky critters fall to fightin'. It all comes of Sol's trainin' 'em to it; an' I'll jest put a stop to that fun. I might as well do it one time as another." Here is Mrs. Down's portrait: Fat, lazy, and good-natured-you could see that with a glance; an undecided mouth, and shallow blue eyes; a general shiftlessness pervading her whole arrangement, or rather derangement, for her light, fady hair was untidily lumped up with a broken comb, and her soiled dress parted company both at throat and waist; her apron boasted one white string and one black one; her feet |