“Thank you, Mrs. Fly,” said Molly, “‘’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever I did spy.’”
The canvas room was indeed very attractive, as well as comfortable. It had a board floor carpeted with rugs, and it boasted a lounge and a table and several rocking-chairs.
“You and Weezy are going to sleep with Auntie David and me in the little room behind those, Molly,” said Pauline hospitably, pointing to a pair of gaudy blankets curtaining off the farther end of the tent. “Papa bought those blankets of the Navajo Indians. Aren’t they gay?”
“Who, Pauline? The Indians?” asked Kirke slyly.
“I don’t think Indians are gay. I think they are sober as a—as a cow!” said outspoken Weezy, who had not understood Kirke’s joke in the least.
“Pauline was talking about the blankets, Ducksie,” said Molly, smoothing her little sister’s hair. “But what makes you think that Indians are sober? You’ve never known any Indians.”
“Oh, Molly Rowe, that isn’t a so story. I’ve seen half a hundred Indians,—well, six, anyway.”
“Where, Weezy?”
“Oh, in the streets and ’round; and in the curious store.” (Weezy meant curio store.) “Don’t you remember that curious store where mamma bought the funny jugs?”
“Oh, yes, I do remember now. There were some Indians there with baskets to sell; and the storekeeper wouldn’t buy them. Perhaps that made the Indians sober.”