“What is the difference,” sang out Ernie, blithely, while I searched mother’s desk for a half-sheet of note paper, “between a horse and an egg?”
“There’s no difference between you and a donkey,” growled Hazard.
“Well, I like that!” retorted Ernestine; while Robin, after a vigorous suck at the stump of pencil I had handed him, began unctuously upon his letter.
“Dear Santa Claus,” he muttered,—
“I want the Mowgli books,—”
“Jungle Books,” corrected Ernie.
“—and a horse just like Georgie’s,” continued Robin, with a flourish.
“Why not a little, white, cuddly, flannel rabbit with pink eyes?” suggested Ernestine. “You could take that to bed with you, you know, Robin, and the horse would have to sleep in a stall in the closet, which wouldn’t be nearly so convenient!”
“Yes, a little white flannel rabbit with pink eyes,” corrected Robin, obligingly. “And a steamboat what can whistle, and a box of building blocks, an’——”
But here Haze slammed to his book.