“My darlings, call your nice little hens some other names. Poor old mother doesn’t like those.”
I was melted in an instant, and began to cast about in my head for new titles. But Jem was softly obstinate, and he had inherited some of my mother’s wheedling ways. He took his hands from his pockets, flung his arms recklessly round her clean collar, and began stroking (or pooring, as we called it) her head with his grubby paws. And as he poored he coaxed—“Dear nice old mammy! It’s only us. What can it matter? Do let us call our bantams what we like.”
And my mother gave in before I had time to.
The dialogue I held with Jem about the bantams after the walnut raid was as follows:
“Jem, you’re awfully fond of the ‘Major and his wives,’ I suppose?”
“Ye-es,” said Jem, “I am. But I don’t mind, Jack, if you want them for your very own. I’ll give up my share,”—and he sighed.
“I never saw such a good chap as you are, Jem. But it’s not that. I thought we might give them to Mrs. Wood. It was so beastly about those disgusting walnuts.”
“I can’t touch walnut pickle now,” said Jem, feelingly.
“It’d be a very handsome present,” said I.
“They took a prize at the Agricultural,” said Jem.