"I am going to read," she began. "I liked it so much one day. But you must sit up very straight and not go to sleep. This first part about the Harp of the North, I don't care for, so I'll begin here.
"'The stag at eve had drunk his fill,
Where danced the moon on Monan's rill—'"
Then she suddenly paused, "This is all in Scotland. Do you know where Scotland is?"
"It is north of England."
"We haven't liked England over well. Grandmother Marvin used to talk about the War of 1812, for grandfather was a sailor and was killed. And there was all the Revolution. Do you think we will ever fight England again?"
"If we do we'll lick her again," I said with boyish American grit.
"I shouldn't mind war against the Indians," she said slowly. "And I do hope England will stay over the other side of the ocean, and—Norman," hesitatingly, "did you ever see a real deer?"
"Why, yes. That's where they get venison steak."
"Oh, now, I will begin again."