“Friday’s child is loving and giving,
But Saturday’s child must work for a living,”
Linda was chanting happily as she entered the kitchen early Saturday morning.
“Katy, me blessing,” she said gaily, “did I ever point out to you the interesting fact that I was born on Saturday? And a de’ilish piece of luck it was, for I have been hustling ever since. It’s bad enough to have been born on Monday and spoiled wash day, but I call Saturday the vanishing point, the end of the extreme limit.”
Katy laughed, and, as always, turned adoring eyes on Linda.
“I am not needing ye, lambie,” she said. “Is it big business in the canyon ye’re having to-day? Shall I be ready to be cooking up one of them God-forsaken Red Indian messes for ye when ye come back?”
Linda held up a warning finger.
“Hist, Katy,” she said. “That is a dark secret. Don’t you be forgetting yourself and saying anything like that before anyone, or I would be ruined entirely.”
“Well, I did think when ye began it,” said Katy, “that of all the wild foolishness ye and your pa had ever gone through with, that was the worst, but that last mess ye worked out was so tasty to the tongue that I thought of it a lot, and I’m kind o’ hankering for more.”
Linda caught Katy and swung her around the kitchen in a wild war dance. Her gayest laugh bubbled clear from the joy peak of her soul.