“Oh, yes,” said Elliott, “I can’t see any of it too soon.” But she was ashamed of her double meaning, with those round, eager eyes upon her. And her heart went down quite into her boots.
But the chickens, she had to confess, were rather amusing. Priscilla had them all named and was quite sure some of them, at least, answered to their names and not merely to the sound of her voice. She appealed to Elliott for corroboration on this point and Elliott grew almost interested trying to decide whether or not Chanticleer knew he was “Chanticleer” and not “Sunflower.” There were also “Fluff” and “Scratch” and “Lady Gay” and “Ruby Crown” and “Marshal Haig” and “General Pétain” and many more, besides “Brevity,” so named because, as Priscilla 42 solicitously explained, she never seemed to grow. They all, with the exception of Brevity, looked as like as peas to Elliott, but Priscilla seemed to have no difficulty in distinguishing them.
Priscilla’s enthusiasm was contagious; or, to be more exact, it was so big and warm and generous that it covered any deficiency of enthusiasm in another. Elliott found herself trailing Priscilla through the barns and even out to see the pigs, meeting Ferdinand Foch, the very new colt, and Kitchener of Khartoum, who had been a new colt three years before, and almost holding hands with the “black-and-whitey” calf, which Priscilla had very nearly decided to call General Pershing. And didn’t Elliott think that would be a nice name, with “J.J.” for short? Elliott had barely delivered herself of a somewhat amused affirmative (though the amusement she knew enough to conceal), when the small tongue tripped into the 43 pigs’ roster. Every animal on the farm seemed to have a name and a personality. Priscilla detailed characteristics quite as though their possessors were human.
It was an enlightened but somewhat surfeited cousin whom Priscilla blissfully escorted into the summer kitchen, a big latticed space filled with the pleasant odors of currant jelly. On the broad table stood trays of ruby-filled glasses.
“We’ve seen all the creatures,” Priscilla announced jubilantly “and she loves ’em. Oh, the jelly’s done, isn’t it? Mumsie, may we scrape the kettle?”
Aunt Jessica laughed. “Elliott may not care to scrape kettles.”
Priscilla opened her eyes wide at the absurdity of the suggestion. “You do, don’t you? You must! Everybody does. Just wait a minute till I get spoons.”
“I don’t think I quite know how to do it,” said Elliott.
The next minute a teaspoon was thrust 44 into her hand. “Didn’t you ever?” Priscilla’s voice was both aghast and pitying. “It wastes a lot, not scraping kettles. Good as candy, too. Here, you begin.” She pushed a preserving-kettle forward hospitably.
Elliott hesitated.