“Shall we say that genius is crude creative power? How will that do?”
“That is better than usual, Aurelius,” cried Anne. “It needs talent to come to anything. It would be easy to illustrate. There is Blake at one end, and—well—Shakspere at the other.”
“May we go?” said Jack, yawning fearfully.
“Yes, of course. What a sight you are!”
“They must have been good shots.”
“Oh, they did well,” said Ned, “and it was worse than bullets. They don’t get inside your pantaloons and skirmish around. I’m very uncomfortable when I sit down.”
“How can one die better, etc.?” cried Dick, and, riotously laughing, they ran out of doors. Margaret looked after them affectionately.
“Do you remember, Archie, how you used to have an unending tale for those boys when they were little, of Tommy Turnip, and how he ran away, and went to Russia, and was made Count Turnipsky?”
“I do, indeed, my dear. It went on for years. Come, Rose, I sha’n’t rest until you have killed a salmon. If it rains hard all day the water will rise, and then good-by salmon until it begins to fall.”
“Is that so?”