“What do you want, anyway?” asked Gypsy, taking a few spasmodic stitches on a long, white seam; “I’m busy. I can’t talk to little boys when I’m sewing.”
“Oh, I guess I don’t want anythin’clock, very much,” said Winnie, folding his arms composedly, as if he had seated himself for the day; “I’m five years old.”
Down went Gypsy’s work, and a whole handful of pink and white blossoms came fluttering into Winnie’s eyes.
“How am I going to sew?” said Gypsy, despairingly; “you’re so exactly in the right place to be hit. I don’t believe Mrs. Surly herself could help snowballing you.”
“Mrs. Surly snowball! Why, I never saw her. Wouldn’t it be just funny?”
“Winnie Breynton, will you please to go away?”
“I say, Gypsy,—if you cut off a grasshopper’s wings, and frow him in a milk-pan, what would he do?” remarked Winnie, inclining to metaphysics, as was Winnie’s custom when he wasn’t wanted. Gypsy took several severe stitches, and made no answer.
“Gypsy—if somebody builded a fire inside of me and made steam, couldn’t I draw a train of cars?”
“Look here—Gyp., when a cat eats up a mouse——”
Winnie forgot what he was aiming at, just there, coughed, and began again.