"Yes, Pony Prince. Barklo lay on the children's beds, and if a stranger didn't went, he barked high."
"Not 'went,'" I corrected; "'Go,' Lammie-noo."
"All right, but what difference does it make?" he asked languidly. "You know what I mean."
"Even a lamb should talk properly," I replied.
"You're a snob," responded Lammie sweetly. "Every animal about the place says so."
I was stung to the quick, for I pride myself on my brotherhood to all creatures.
"My grandfather was a prize ram and mingled in the best society," babbled Lammie.
"Now who's the snob?" I asked.
"And I always go in the woodshed when it rains," pursued Lammie-noo. "I can't help it. The sheep say I'm stuck up, but I'm not. I was brought up that way. My mamma never cared to wet her fleece—and I can't associate with that whole flock all the time. I have favourites—I don't deny it. I admire to eat beside Roxy and Woxy and Daffy-Down-Dilly. Persimmon and Emma and Maximilian I detest, but they're always crowding up to me. Are you troubled with bores?"
"Very much," I said, glaring at him. "I see one before me at this present moment. You don't impress me at all. I think you're silly, eating in that nibbling way, and sticking your far from beautiful head on one side. Also your ideas are as crude as your mode of expressing yourself."