Then mamma said,—
“Will Kenneth pick up the books now?”
“Tennet won’t.”
This time there was a gleam of mischief that at once resolved mamma to sterner measures.
“Very well, then I must spat baby’s hands hard,” and she took up one of the soft bits of velvet that served Kenneth for hands, and bestowed a decided spat upon it. Kenneth winked and swallowed. He put his reddened fingers behind his back, and promptly offered the other hand, which mamma spatted also.
Straightway he went through the same performance, producing hand number one. It was difficult to keep from laughing, for the baby was so sober and so determined. He never moved his eyes from mamma’s face.
Fully half a dozen times, mamma slapped the hands of her rebellious little man. Then, suddenly remembering baby’s speech in the nursery, she said,—
“Now, Kenneth, mamma is going into the hall for a few minutes, and there will be nobody to see you change your mind, so you can pick up the books, and—”
“Tennet won’t!” came with such determined emphasis that mamma almost jumped.
“Then, when I come back,” mamma went on, looking very grave, “I will bring a little switch with me, and whip my baby’s hands hard. Kenneth must not say ‘won’t’ to mamma.”