"Gee whiz!" exclaimed David. "You're a swell in that dress!"
"Ain't I—I mean am I—ach, David, it's hard sometimes to talk like Miss Lee says we should."
"Where'd you get the dress, Phœbe?"
"Up in the garret. Aunt Maria said I dare go up and play 'cause it's my birthday."
"Hold on, that's just what I came for, to pull your ears."
"No you don't," she said crossly. "No you don't, David Eby, pull my ears." She clapped a hand upon each ear.
"Then I'll pull a curl," he said and suited the action to the word. He took one of the long light curls and pulled it gently, yet with a brusque show of savagery and strength—"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, and one to make you grow. Now who says I can't celebrate your birthday!"
"You're mean, awful mean, David Eby!" She tossed her head in anger. But a moment later she relented as she saw him smile. "Ach," she said in friendly tone, "I don't care if you pull my curls. It didn't hurt anyhow. You can't do it again for a whole year. But don't you think I look like a primer donner, David?"
"Oh, say it right! How can you expect to ever be what you can't pronounce? It's pri-ma-don-na."
"Pri-ma-don-na," she repeated, shaking her curls at every syllable. "Do I look like a prima donna?"