“The sheep got poisoned weed,” said Eva.
“And the dingoes came,” answered Doris.
“So they did,” cried Eileen, ticking off the events on her fingers. “That’s six. Can’t we make twelve?”
“Say that lot over again,” said Doris, “and we might think of more.” She sat down and prepared to enjoy herself listening to their bad luck.
“Yes,” answered Eileen, with hands in the air. “There’s the two cows and the calf—oh! by the way, I didn’t count the calf last time; that’s three, and the horse—that’s four; and old S-t-a-r-’s f-o-a-l” (spelling it aloud, so that Baby would not go into a fresh paroxysm of grief) “makes five, and there’s the poisoned weed and the dingoes. That makes seven. We nearly have twelve—we might think of more by night,” she went on hopefully.
“Oh! I know another—one you haven’t thought of—very near the biggest of them all,” shouted Doris.
“Oh! Doris, darling, tell us!”
“What about the haystack being burnt down?” she exclaimed triumphantly.
“Oh, yes!” they shouted; “very near the worst of all, because if the wind was blowing the other way and the house was a lot nearer the stack, it would have been burnt, too.”
“Fancy me thinkin’ of it, and you not, and me very near the youngest,” said Doris proudly, as she folded her hands complacently, with a look of self-satisfaction.