“I wonder what Carin’s doing, Jim?”
“Fooling ’round in that there studio of hern. My, but she can paint, can’t she? Did you see that picture she done of me sitting up in the willer?”
“Jim McBirney, what makes you talk like that? You know better than to say ‘done’ for ‘did’ and you know willow isn’t pronounced ‘willer.’”
“Now, look here, Zalie, you leave me alone and let me talk like I want to. I ain’t got on my Sunday clothes, have I? Well then, I don’t have to put on Sunday talk. Just let me feel comfortable, can’t you?”
“I wish Carin were up here to-day.”
“And Hi. I’d rather have Hi. Carin makes me kind o’ squirm. She’s a mighty nice girl, but she don’t make me feel to home.”
“Oh, Jim, she’s lovely. And such fun too! She can get up the best plays you ever heard of.”
“Girl plays, I reckon. She couldn’t think of anything that would interest boys.”
“Maybe boys wouldn’t have the sense to be interested, smarty.”
“Children,” broke in the soft voice of Ma McBirney, “I’ve got the dinner in the oven and there ain’t nothing occupying me just at present. Wouldn’t one of you read me a story from them Youth’s Companions Carin sent home by pa last night? Seems as if it would pass the time.”