“Reckon we can see 'em?” she asked.
“See nothing!” sniffed the little boy. “Ever sence Billy let Mr. Algernon Jones whack Miss Minerva's beau we can't do nothing at all 'thout grown folks 'r' stuck right under your nose. I'm jes' cramped to death.”
“When I'm a mama,” mused Frances, “I hope Doctor Sanford'll bring me three little twinses, and two Maltese kittens, and a little Japanee, and a monkey, and a parrit.”
“When I'm a papa,” said Jimmy, “I don' want no babies at all, all they's good for is jus' to set 'round and yell.”
“Look like God 'd sho' be busy a-makin' so many babies,” remarked Billy.
“Why, God don' have none 'a the trouble,” explained Jimmy. “He's just got Him a baby factory in Heaven like the chair factory and the canning factory down by the railroad, and angels jus' all time make they arms and legs, like niggers do at the chair factory, and all God got to do is jus' glue 'em together, and stick in their souls. God's got 'bout the easiest job they is.”
“I thought angels jes' clam' the golden stair and play they harps,” said Billy.
“Ain't we going to look sweet at Miss Cecilia's wedding,” said Frances, after a short silence.
“I'll betcher I'll be the cutest kid in that church,” boasted Jimmy conceitedly. “You coming, ain't you, Billy?”
“I gotter go,” answered that jilted swain, gloomily, “Aunt Minerva ain't got nobody to leave me with at home. I jes' wish she'd git married.”