March. Oh! Sept. came in the same way, by water, a little sooner, the September before. Daddy Gale evidently expected to complete the calendar, and have a whole almanac of shipwrecked babbies.
Kate. He is not Mr. Gale’s son?
March. No, he’s a nobody, too: we’re a pair of innocent but unfortunate babbies.
Kate. Strange I have not heard this before. I have been here nearly a month.
Mrs. G. Bless your dear soul, John Gale doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s precious fond of these boys; and I tell him he’s afeard somebody will come and claim ’um. But he’s done his duty by them. No matter how poor the haul, how bad the luck, he always manages to lay by something for their winter’s schooling; and, if ever anybody should claim them, they can’t complain that they have’nt had an edication.
March. That’s so, Mother Gale, all but my singing; but I have strong hopes of somebody coming to claim me. I feel I was born to be something great,—a great singer, or something else.
Mrs. G. Something else, most likely.
March. Yes. I expect to see my rightful owner appearing in a coach and four to bear me to his ancestrial castle.
Mrs. G. Fiddlesticks!