Paul and Maureen giggled at Grandpa's old joke—not just to please him but because it tickled them, and when they went visiting they sprang it on their cousins every chance they got.
Quiet settled down over the table except for the clatter of forks and Grandpa slurping his coffee. With second helpings talk began.
"Grandma," Paul asked, "how'd you like a few goats? A billy maybe, but a she-goat for sure? Y'see, she could be a nurser just in case."
Grandma put down her fork. "Paul Beebe! I swan, it must be mental telegraphy. Why, only last night I dreamt we had a hull flock of goats, and Misty friended with a nice old nanny and she let her kid run with Misty's baby and they'd butt each other and play real cute."
Grandpa clamped his hands over both ears. "I'm deef!" he bellowed. "I heerd nary a word!" He got up from the table. "Six o'clock!" he announced. "You children light out and clean Misty's stall. Schooltime'll be here afore ye know it. The sea's in a fret today and there's a look to the sky I don't like. No time for gabbin'."
"Pshaw," Grandma said. "My daddy, who was captain of the...."
"Yes, Idy," he mimicked, "yer daddy, who was captain of the Alberta, the last sailing vessel here to Chincoteague, he'd say—wa-ll, what'd he say?"
"He'd say," Grandma repeated, proud of her knowledge of the sea, "'There's barely a riffle of waves in the bay. Glass is down low, and we're due for a change in the weather.' But, Clarence, aren't we always in for a change?"
