“Don’t swear,” said his wife.
“‘Thunder’ ain’t swearin’,” retorted Mr. Brown with a virtuous air. “I c’d say lots worse things.”
“Well, git out and say ’em in th’ road, then,” advised his wife, “an’ not before this child. Where’d you say you was a-goin’?” She bent her large face over the small one snuggled against her ample bosom.
“To my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, so glad that at last she was understood.
The wrinkles in Farmer Brown’s face ran clear down to his stubby beard, as he slapped one hard hand on his knee.
“Oh, yes—yes,” said his wife, nodding her big sunbonnet.
“Don’t pretend you understand her, Mother,” Mr. Brown turned to his wife, “for you don’t—neither of us do, no more’n th’ dead.”
“You let me be, John,” said Mrs. Brown, “an’ I’ll attend to this child.”
Farmer Brown whistled and looked off up to the clouds; perhaps something might come down to illuminate the situation.
“Now, where is Mum—Mam—whatever you said?” began Mrs. Brown, patting Phronsie’s yellow hair with a large red hand.