"Well, spell goose, then," said Nan, seeing a flock of geese marching stiffly in single file across a field near the road.
Uncle Plato looked at them carefully enough to take their measure, and then shook his head solemnly. "Deyer so many un um, honey, dey'd be monstus hard fer ter spell."
"Well, just spell one of them then," Nan suggested.
"Which un, honey?"
"Any one you choose."
Uncle Plato studied over the matter a moment, and again shook his head. "Uh-uh, honey; dat ain't nigh gwine ter do. Ef you speck me fer ter spell goose, you got ter pick out de one you want me ter spell."
"Well, spell the one behind all the rest."
Again Uncle Plato shook his head. "Dat ar goose got half-grown goslin's, an' I ain't never larnt how ter spell goose wid half-grown goslin's. You ax too much, honey."
"Then spell the one next to head." Nan was inexorable.
"Dat ar ain't no goose," replied Uncle Plato, with an air of triumph; "she's a gander."