Child. Mary, have you finished that hemming? ’Cause I want you to practice.
Mother. Not quite, mamma. But can I play when this is done?
Child (severely). No, Mary, you can’t. You’ve played enough; and if you don’t go to school, why, you’ve got to study at home—just lots. (Sits down, adjusts dress, folds hands.) You’ve got to do lots of sums, and most fifty words in spelling. And you’ve got to practice—two—hours. Just scales and finger exercises, nothing else. (Apologetically, aside.) I’m not doing this to be mean, mamma, I truly ain’t. But I want you to see how it feels to have to do things you don’t like. (Continues with dignity.) You see Mary, mothers know lots more than little girls. I mean they think they do—and I know you must do that way.
Mother. But I’m hungry, and it’s long past lunch time.
Child. I know it, Mary, but you finish that before you can have any lunch. (In a little girl’s tone.) Really and truly Bridget is horrid. She said it would take her too long to fix all the things I told her to, and when I in-sis-ted—I had to stamp my foot at her—she just said all right, but I’d have to wait for ’em then. Does she do that way when you are the mamma?
Mother. She is rather trying sometimes.
Child. Mercy! I should think so! (Resumes grown-up air.) Now, after lunch—when it comes—if it ever does—I’m going to play all the afternoon. Oh! I forgot. Don’t mothers ever play? Don’t you play sometimes, when you are the mamma?
Mother. Oh, yes.
Child. But how?