Rafe was inclined to poke good-natured fun at his young cousin for her enthusiasm; but Tom showed an understanding that quite surprised Nan. Despite his simplicity regarding some of the commonest things of the great outside world, he showed that he was very observant of the things about him.
“Oh, Tom was always like that,” scoffed Rafe, with ready laughter at his slow brother. “He'd rather pick up a bug any day and put it through a cross-examination, than smash it under the sole of his boot.”
“I don't think bugs were made to smash,” Tom said stoutly.
“Whew! What in thunder were they made for?” demanded the mocking Rafe.
“I don't think God Almighty made things alive just for us to make 'em dead,” said Tom, clumsily, and blushing a deep red.
Rafe laughed again. Rafe had read much more in a desultory fashion than Tom.
“Tom ought to be one of those Brahmas,” he said, chuckling. “They carry a whisk broom to brush off any seat they may sit on before they sit down, so's they sha'n't crush an ant, or any other crawling thing. They're vegetarians, too, and won't take life in any form.”
“Now, Rafe!” exclaimed his mother, who was never quite sure when her younger son was playing the fool. “You know that Brahmas are hens. I've got some in my flock those big white and black, lazy fowls, with feathers on their legs.”
Nan had to laugh at that as well as Rafe. “Brahma fowl, I guess, came from Brahma, or maybe Brahmaputra, all right. But Rafe means Brahmans. They're a religious people of India,” the girl from Tillbury said.
“And maybe they've got it right,” Tom said stubbornly. “Why should we kill unnecessarily?”