“Have you counted them, father?” exclaimed Sister, in perplexity, taking hold of his sleeve.
“Why, of course father hasn’t, you little donkey!” said Lasse Frederik. “One might be born while he was counting!”
Then they were at the cock again, which both began and ended the book. He stood and crowed so proudly and never slept. He was a regular prig, but when Sister was diligent he put a one-öre piece among the leaves. But the hens laid eggs, and it was evident that they were the same as the flowers; for when you were kind to them and treated them as if they belonged to the family, they were industrious in laying, but if you built a model house for them and treated them according to all established rules, they did not even earn as much as would pay for their food. At Uncle Kalle’s there was a hen that came into the room among all the children and laid its egg under the bed every single day all through the winter, when no other hens were laying. Then the farmer of Stone Farm bought it to make something by it. He gave twenty kroner (a guinea) for it and thought he had got a gold mine; but no sooner did it come to Stone Farm than it left off laying winter eggs, for there it was not one of the family, but was only a hen that they wanted to make money out of.
“Mother’s balsam flowers all the winter,” said Sister, looking fondly at the plant.
“Yes, that’s because it sees how industrious we all are,” said Lasse Frederik mischievously.
“Will you be quiet!” said Pelle, hitting out at him.
Ellen sat knitting some tiny socks. Her glance moved lingeringly from one to another of them, and she smiled indulgently at their chatter. They were just a lot of children!
“Mother, may I have those for my doll?” asked Anna, taking up the finished sock.
“No, little sister’s to have them when she comes.”
“If it is a girl,” put in Lasse Frederik.