I went to bed, and dreamed that I was as tall as cousin Phillis, and had a sudden and miraculous growth of whisker, and a still more miraculous acquaintance with Latin and Greek. Alas! I wakened up still a short, beardless lad, with “tempus fugit” for my sole remembrance of the little Latin I had once learnt. While I was dressing, a bright thought came over me: I could question cousin Phillis, instead of her questioning me, and so manage to keep the choice of the subjects of conversation in my own power.
Early as it was, every one had breakfasted, and my basin of bread and milk was put on the oven-top to await my coming down. Every one was gone about their work. The first to come into the house-place was Phillis with a basket of eggs. Faithful to my resolution, I asked,—
“What are those?”
She looked at me for a moment, and then said gravely,—
“Potatoes!”
“No! they are not,” said I. “They are eggs. What do you mean by saying they are potatoes?”
“What do you mean by asking me what they were, when they were plain to be seen?” retorted she.
We were both getting a little angry with each other.
“I don’t know. I wanted to begin to talk to you; and I was afraid you would talk to me about books as you did yesterday. I have not read much; and you and the minister have read so much.”
“I have not,” said she. “But you are our guest; and mother says I must make it pleasant to you. We won’t talk of books. What must we talk about?”