“Perhaps he doesn’t know what it is,” I suggested, rather unkindly, scarcely able to keep my countenance at the idea of that baby playing with such a toy.
“Perhaps not,” said Karl, more cheerfully, kneeling down by my side—Sigmund sat on my knee—and squeezing the stand, so that the woolly animal howled. “Sieh! Sigmund! Look at the pretty lamb!”
“Oh, come, Karl! Are you a lamb? Call it an eagle at once,” said I, skeptically.
“It is a lamb, ain’t it?” said he, turning it over. “They called it a lamb at the shop.”
“A very queer lamb; not a German breed, anyhow.”
“Now I think of it, my little sister has one, but she calls it a rabbit, I believe.”
“Very likely. You might call that anything, and no one could contradict you.”
“Well, der Kleine doesn’t know the difference; it’s a toy,” said Karl, desperately.
“Not a toy that seems to take his fancy much,” said I, as Sigmund, with evident signs of displeasure, turned away from the animal on the green stand, and refused to look at it. Karl looked despondent.