"Mother."
"Yes."
"I think I'd like to sing a song now."
Straight and proper you stood in the little path, your heels together, your hands at your side, and so you sang to her the song of the little duck:
"'Quack, quack,' said the Duck,
'Quack, quack.'
'Quack, quack,' said—"
You stopped.
"Try it a little lower, dear."
"'Quack, quack,' said—"
"No, that's too low," you said. You tried again and started right that time and sang it through, the song of the little duck who
"'... wouldn't be a girl,
With only a curl,
I wouldn't be a girl, would you?'"