“I is going to mow lawn, too,” announced Tony, Junior, with decision.
“All right, sir. Here we are. Get in front of me and mind you push hard. That’s the stuff!”
All went joyously for ten minutes. Then little Tony wriggled out from between his father’s arms and went over to the porch step. He sat down and crossed two fat legs. He leaned his head upon his hand, his elbow on his knee, and watched with serious eyes the progress of the lawn-mower three times across before he said wistfully:
“Favver, I wis’ you’d p’ay wiv me.”
“When I get this job done perhaps I will,” said Anthony, and made the grass fly merrily. Presently he put away the lawn-mower, and stood looking down at the sturdy little figure in the blue Russian blouse. “What do you want to play?” he asked. Tony’s face lit up.
“Le’s play fire-endjun,” he proposed enthusiastically.
“Where shall we play the fire is?”
“Le’s have weal fire,” said Tony eagerly.
“Real fire? Well, I don’t know about that, son,” his father responded doubtfully. “Young persons of three are not considered old enough to play with the real thing. Won’t make believe do just as well?”
“No, no—weal fire,” repeated the child. “Le’s put it out wiv sqi’yt watto. P’ease, favver—p’ease!”