“Fordet what else,” said her babyship, and tucked herself up again to dismiss the subject. Then she untucked herself half-an-inch. “Le’s have a lump of iggy to put in mine pocket,” she said. Phyl laughed [49] ]at her. In her haste to proffer this request, the small one had fallen back into the baby word she had called “sugar” during the first year or two of her initiation into speech and language.
“Yes, it sud have some iggy, it sud, poor little baby,” Phyl said teasingly.
Weenie blushed painfully.
“Well, I can say my R’s and Dolly can’t,” she said excusingly. “Dolly says Yobbin Yedbwest.”
It was Dolly’s turn to grow pink. She was very sensitive about this defect in her speech.
“You are both dreadful little babies,” said Phyl, with a superior smile.
“I knew a still more dreadful baby,” said the mother. “Weenie, there never was such a silly little girl as Phyl when she was even bigger than you. Why, what do you think she called my silver thimble even when she was five?”
Phyl blushed in her turn now, but Weenie was eager.
“Oh, tell’s,” she said.
“Simby-fimby,” said the mother; “that’s quite as bad as ‘iggy,’ isn’t it?”