"Now what'll we cook?" cried little Cora. "What'll we cook, Jim? We must have something to cook, you know."
"Potatoes?" said Jimmie.
But the angel child made a scornful gesture. "No. I've cooked 'bout a million potatoes, I guess. Potatoes aren't nice any more."
Jimmie's mind was all said and done when the question of potatoes had been passed, and he looked weakly at his companion.
"Haven't you got any turnips in your house?" she inquired, contemptuously. "In my house we have turnips."
"Oh, turnips!" exclaimed Jimmie, immensely relieved to find that the honor of his family was safe. "Turnips? Oh, bushels an' bushels an' bushels! Out in the shed."
"Well, go an' get a whole lot," commanded the angel child. "Go an' get a whole lot. Grea' big ones. We always have grea' big ones."
Jimmie went to the shed and kicked gently at a company of turnips which the frost had amalgamated. He made three journeys to and from the cellar, carrying always the very largest types from his father's store. Four of them filled the oven of little Cora's stove. This fact did not please her, so they placed three rows of turnips on the hot top. Then the angel child, profoundly moved by an inspiration, suddenly cried out,
"Oh, Jimmie, let's play we're keepin' a hotel, an' have got to cook for 'bout a thousand people, an' those two furnaces will be the ovens, an' I'll be the chief cook—"
"No; I want to be chief cook some of the time," interrupted Jimmie.