“I want Charlie to come help me chase those darling little yellow butterflies that’s ‘gathering honey from the opening flower’ to make butter of,” screamed Jack.
“Oh, Artie, just listen to that child,” said Daisy. “His mind is all askew. He’s talking about making butter of honey.”
“I guess the little chap remembers how the buckwheat cakes and honey made the butterfly last winter,” replied the Keeper, as he gave a most satisfactory send through the second wicket.
“Will you just listen to that, Charlotte?” said Nan, who, under the old pear-tree’s shade, was helping take out grass-stains from the dainty city linen.
“I tell you I never did see such sense in children in my born days. Just you wait till I run and tell Hugh and my mother ’fore it slips.”
Nan found ready listeners in the kitchen, for old Celia laid aside her soap and sand—Hugh ceased his psalm-singing, with knife-scraping accompaniment, and stood with knife and cork in either hand, and mouth and eyes opened wide to take in the “uncommon sense of Mister John’s wonderful children.”
“Well, now! only look at that, will ye?”
“Only jest to hear, if that ain’t Mister John his werry self—Oh, my! It appears to me, Nan, them childerns will be the werry death of me yet. What with peerin’ and listenin’ and laughin’, my work’s all in the drags. The werry pots and kettles seem just turnin’ into boys and girls. Oh, my! Oh, my! I say, you Nan, just go long, and if you come this yer way tellin’ any more about them childerns’ perform, I’ll harpoon you with the toasting fork,—so off with you.”