he sang.
"You are such nice boys," cried Rob, approvingly. "Just as big geese as we are ourselves."
"Bigger, physically, but mentally we yield to you," said Basil, with a bow.
"Do you expect to be a painter, Bart?" asked Wythie. The sketch he was making was really full of talent.
"I'd like to be; they say I can't tell what I want till I finish college, but I think I know," said Bartlemy. "I want to go off to Europe and live in galleries for a few years, and then try my own hand."
"I mean to teach school," said pretty Prue, looking as picturesquely unlike such a career as was possible. "I'm the only one that is getting a regular school training; Wythie and Rob did lessons at home, but I'm to be properly educated. So I shall teach. Unless I sing," she added, as an after-thought.
"Bruce has been a doctor, according to his own verdict, ever since he could speak," said Basil.
"And Basil doesn't care what he does, provided it puts a pen between his fingers, and encloses him in four walls lined with books," added Bruce.
"I think I shall be a motorman," said Rob, gravely. "I get so deadly tired sometimes of hearing no clang or rattle! There is a monotony about my youth that will drive me to trolleys, or a Ferris wheel when I grow up. I'd like to see things hum."