"Who does the countin'?" demanded Punch.
"Wish I'd been born with all the learnin' in me," scoffed Snippet.
But Goody, who had gathered many a pinecone for our feeding-boxes and, her snub nose pressed snubbier yet against the window pane, had watched the black-capped rolypolies twitch out the winged seeds, stood her ground.
"Does, too," she averred stoutly. "Boys don't know about birds. They stone 'em."
"And girls wear feathers in their hats."
"I don't, but Snippet's mamma does."
"Doesn't neither. She jes' wears regrets on Sunday."
"You don't say it right, but you're nothin' but a small boy."
"I'm seven," blustered Snippet, "and I think I'd be eight by now, if I hadn't had the measles."
"Where's Taka?" I exclaimed.