“No; how?”
“We can be greater than Napoleon or George Washington. The Bible says so. My mamma showed me the verse. It says, ‘He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.’”
“What is wuling his spiwit?” asked Tod.
“Oh, it’s being real mad and not saying a single word till you feel pleasant. I guess it means feel right, soon as you can, too. I’ll show you. There comes Tom Lawrence and Jack Mullin. They’ll be sure to say something awful provoking, and I shall be just as polite. Good-morning, Tom—I mean good-afternoon.”
“Did anybody speak—I mean squeal?” queried Tom, staring all around. “I saw a couple of magpies—no; ’pon my word, one is a bumble-bee. Hear it buzz, now.”
But Maybee worked on without a word.
“Oh, she’s mad; regular spitfire, she is. I wonder what she’s making,—a duck or a toad.”
Maybee reddened, but rejoined quite cheerfully, “Tod’s making a house. Mine is a soldier, and this stick is for a gun.”
“Look out, then! Here comes one of Carter’s three-hundred-pounders,” and sending a huge snowball over the fence, the two boys moved leisurely on.
It fell directly on the roof of Tod’s house, quite demolishing it.