"Dear little mother, poor little mother, I'll shut the door and keep the Arabs as still as I ever can."
Helen always called them the Arabs when she spoke of them collectively. It was a family pet name for them. The baby had toppled into the big pan, and was fast asleep when Helen went out. She picked her up and laid her tenderly beside the mother. Then with wonderful ease she flew about, finishing the dishes, setting the table for lunch, and doing three things at once with nimble dexterity. She met the Arabs at the door with hushing forefinger. They trooped in on tiptoe, sniffing anxiously for dinner smells.
"I'm awful hungry!" Archie whispered, shrilly.
"So be I—awful!" Harry echoed. "Are there sweet-potatoes, Helen?"
"I smell 'em! I smell 'em!" Molly cried, under her breath, dancing across the floor.
"'Sh! 'sh! Yes, there are sweet-potatoes, but not for Arabs with dirty faces. Come here this minute, and let me polish you up. Oh, Harry, where ever did you tear your trousers so? A great big hog tear!"
"Folks oughter not have fences with splinters to 'em, then," Harry spluttered, with his mouth full of soapy water. "I was crawlin' under to see if Pat Curran's cow chews gum. Bill Miller says so."
"Does she?" Molly asked, eagerly.
"Well, I'm not certain sure, but I think so. She wouldn't open her month more'n a crack for me to look."
"I bet she does," little Archie chimed in, "'cause I've seen her my own self. She makes her jaws go just this way—look!"