"I remember! I remember!" I cried, clapping my hands. "She put me under her wing, and the feathers did tickle so!"
My father stopped to laugh; but in a moment he continued his narrative.
"She came flying along straight into the garden where I was walking about. She put you down—"
"And you said, 'Is this my little Rhoda?' and I said, 'Yes, father!'"
"Just so."
"Now tell it all over again, father," I demanded in delight.
My father laughed and hugged me closer. He still had that apologetic look on his face, and if I had been a little older and a little wiser, I would have known that my father was trying very hard to break something to me.
"She has a great many babies," he said at last, in an uneasy tone. "More than she knows what to do with. Yesterday I wrote her to send me another Rhoda."
I drew away from him, dumbfounded.