“The United States of America are bounded on the east by the Atlantic Ocean, on the west by the Pacific, on the south by Mexico and the Gulf, and on the north by an imaginary line called Canada. The State of New York alone is as large as England,” said Bud, glibly, repeating a familiar lesson.
“What a size!” cried Kate. “Take another of them brown biscuits. Scotland's not slack neither for size; there's Glasgow and Oban, and Colonsay and Stornoway. There'll not be hills in America?”
“There's no hills, just mountains,” said Bud. “The chief mountain ranges are the Rocky Mountains and the Alleghanies. They're about the biggest mountains in the world.”
“Talking about big things, look at the big pennyworth of milk we get here,” said Kate, producing a can—it was almost the last ditch of her national pride.
The child looked gravely into the can, and then glanced shrewdly at the maid.
“It isn't a pennyworth,” said she, sharply, “it's twopence worth.”
“My stars! how did you know that?” said Kate, much taken aback.
“'Cause you're bragging. Think I don't know when anybody's bragging?” said Bud. “And when a body brags about a place or anything, they zaggerate, and just about double things.”
“You're not canny,” said Kate, thrusting the milk-can back hastily on the kitchen dresser. “Don't spare the butter on your biscuit. They tell me there's plenty of money in America. I would not wonder, eh?”
“Why, everybody's got money to throw at the birds there,” said Bud, with some of the accent as well as the favorite phrase of Jim Molyneux.