Ecila—Why, I don’t know. I never tried. I’m not big enough yet. (to Mom) Come, sing! Sing up, now, at once. There’s a lot piling up for Friday.
(Mom sings between sobs, “Loora-laddy, loora-laddy” over and over, a number of times. There should be no particular tune, and no attempt at time. She should end in the middle of a syllable, on some note least fitted for an end.)
Knarf—There! Next time do as you’re told. One for Friday for crying. Now, Dad, you whistle.
Derf—Oh, Mom made a face, her did. One for Fiday.
(Dad begins to whistle, loudly, but not tunefully. He should whistle in jerks, and keep time with his hands, in some absurd way.)
Frank—(to Dad) Are you their father, really?
Dad—Of course. You think I mind ’cause I like it, do you?
Ecila—(to Alice) Have you a Marg.
Alice—A Marg. What’s that?
Ecila—Why, my Marg was Dad’s mother. Some children have two. Have you any?