“Oh, blow the ants,” said Jack, “I want to find a jolly old fox burrow, and dig out the cubs.”
“Plaguey hot work in this weather,” remarked Phil, with a yawn, “a hornet’s nest, that we could blow up this evening, would be better.”
“Oh! but I’d like to find an earfman,” piped Marygold again, “one that could hide under Fay’s thimble.”
“Shut up that rot,” said Andrew, crossly, “and I say, Di, keep out of that nettle-bed, will you? None of you are to disturb those nettles, do you hear, all of you, I’m the eldest, and I mean what I say.”
“Do you?” retorted Di, “and please, your majesty, why can’t I begin my explorations by jumping into the very middle of that nettle-bed if I see fit as I most probably shall.”
“Because, probably, amongst those nettles there’ll be some Hipparchia.”
“Now, chain up with that jargon,” broke in Jack, “we’re not going to stand a butterfly-butcher bossing it over us.”
“You horrid boy,” cried Faith, “that sounds so ugly.”
“There, Mrs. Faith, you show your ignorance of the best verse of the period,” was the retort, “for I was quoting from a very fine piece of modern poetry, eh, Di?’
“Here’s the original, I declare,” said Phil, stretching out his hand from where he was sprawling on the grass, and snatching up the paper on which Di had been busily scribbling before she had arisen, on exploration bent. “Capital,” went on Phil, glancing at the paper, “you’ve improved on it since the morning. Now, pay attention, Miss Annie, here is something worth listening to.”