“Well, then you understand how I feel. I’d like to be a man, and go to war, and ‘Have a part to tear a cat in,’ too.”
“What’s that? What’s that? Mary, do you hear that?” said her father, resuming his seat at Peter’s side, and hearing her remark.
“Why, father, wouldn’t you? You know you’d like to go to war. I heard what you said to mother, and, anyway––I’d just like to be a man and ‘Have a part to tear a cat in,’ the way men have.”
Bertrand Ballard looked down and patted his little daughter’s head, then caught her up and placed her on his knee. He realized suddenly that his child was an entity unfathomed, separate from himself, working out her own individuality almost without guidance, except such as he and his Mary were unconsciously giving to her by their daily acts and words.
“What books are those you have there? Don’t you know you mustn’t take father’s Shakespeare out and leave it on the grass?”
Betty laughed. “How did you know I had Shakespeare?”
“Didn’t you say you ‘Would like a part to tear a cat in’?”
“Oh, have you read ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’?” She lifted her head from his bosom and eyed him gravely a moment, then snuggled comfortably down again. “But then, I suppose you have read everything.” Her father and Peter both laughed.
“Were you reading ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ out there?”