"Ma, I wish you'd make Tim brush his hair," drawled the eldest. "Look at it."
"I have brushed it—it won't lie down, that's all. It's a cowlick or something."
"Yes, or something! You need a hair-cut."
"Yes, I guess you do," said Mary, looking at Timothy's thick disorderly black mop. "You can go after school and get one."
Jim picked up the silver hand-bell and rang it loudly.
"What's that for?"
"Pancakes. I told Hilda to make some and she's late as usual. It's half-past eight now."
The waitress brought in a big platter of cakes, and they vanished quickly, with no comment except, "Pass the butter.... Maple-syrup, please—I'll take a couple more, Mother." Then the three said, "Please excuse me," and bolted for the door. In the hall arose the usual hubbub. "That's my coat you've got.... Where's my cap?... Confound it, who took my rubbers?..."
Mary went out to say, "All your rubbers are on the shelf in the coat-closet," to make sure that nobody rushed off without his rubbers, to hear their shouted good-byes. The door banged behind them. She smiled and went back to her coffee and the newspaper. Cold bath and coffee made her feel fresh, full of energy, in spite of a bad night. The world always looked more cheerful in the morning, especially when the boys were about—they were so full of life, all of them, they were nice even when they squabbled. Yes, if one could always be young, things wouldn't be so bad. Life might be rather pleasant if you didn't look into it too much.