"It's a shame, that's what it is, and I don't think mothers have got any right to make boys eight years old tend little dried-up-looking babies that can't do anything but cry."
Eddie Barnard's voice expressed the sympathy he felt for his cousin, Charley Harnden, when he found him caring for the baby on that particular Saturday afternoon they had counted on for putting the finishing touches to a large kite which it was believed would outsail any other in the village.
"Boys wasn't made to sit 'round holdin' babies, and I just wish Doctor Abbott hadn't brought this one, 'cause it's just done nothing but plague me ever since it come;" and Charley almost shook his little baby brother, who was sucking his thumb as contentedly as if he hadn't an idea how sadly he was in the way.
"I'll tell you what we might do, and then babies wouldn't bother us anymore," said Eddie, as he jumped to his feet suddenly. "We might turn Injuns, like two I read of in a book Sam Basset lent me. We could be reg'lar Injun chiefs, an' go out to Chickcommon woods to live."
At first Charley was delighted with the idea, and he danced around at great risk of upsetting the baby entirely, but a sudden thought clouded his joy.
"Injuns have wigwams, an' squaws, and ponies, an' we can't get any of them."
"Yes we can; we can catch Tom Downey's old blind horse an' play it was a pony, an' you ain't smart if you don't know where to catch a squaw."
"Where?" asked Charley, breathlessly.
"Ain't there your sister Nellie? Can't we get a lot of grasshoppers an' coax her out behind the meetin'-house to see them? An' then can't we catch her an' tie her, an' drag her by the arms up to the woods, just like any Injuns do?"
"Of course. An' we could get some bed-quilts for a camp."