“They have little to do; forbye, it's cruelty. Mind you, there's plenty of money here, too; your uncle has a desperate lot of it. He was wanting to go away to America and bring you home whenever he heard—whenever he heard—Will you not try another of them biscuits? It will do you no harm.”
“I know,” said Bud, gravely—“whenever he heard about my father being dead.”
“I think we're sometimes very stupid, us from Colonsay,” said the maid, regretfully. “I should have kept my mouth shut about your father. Take two biscuits, my dear; or maybe you would rather have short-cake. Yes, he was for going there and then—even if it cost a pound, I dare say—but changed his mind when he heard yon man Molyneux was bringing you.” Footles, snug in the child's lap, shared the biscuits and barked for more.
“'I love little Footles,
His coat is so warm,
And if I don't tease him
He'll do me no harm,'”
said Bud, burying her head in his mane.
“Good Lord! did you make that yourself, or just keep mind of it?” asked the astounded Kate.
“I made it just right here,” said Bud, coolly. “Didn't you know I could make poetry? Why, you poor, perishing soul, I'm just a regular wee—wee whitterick at poetry! It goes sloshing round in my head, and it's simply pie for me to make it. Here's another:
“'Lives of great men oft remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.'
I just dash them off. I guess I'll have to get up bright and early to-morrow and touch that one up some. Mostly you can't make them good the first try, and then you're bound to go all over them from the beginning and put the good in here and there. That's art, Jim says. He knew an artist who'd finish a picture with everything quite plain about it, and then say, 'Now for the art!' and fuzz it all over with a hard brush.”
“My stars, what things you know!” exclaimed the maid. “You're clever—tremendous clever! What's your age?”