It was quite true. We none of us felt as if we could touch Auntie May's mixture, we so very much preferred mother's. Auntie May put us all back again, and stood up and shook herself, and the milk we hadn't taken ran down the creases of her pinafore on to the floor. They both went away, and Rosamond, as she went out of the door, recommended mother to tidy it by licking it up, partly in joke—at least mother took it that way, for, as she said, she was not a common cat, to eat up slops, and they would have to send Mary to wash it away with a cloth.
THE MILK RAN DOWN THE CREASES TO THE FLOOR.
Next morning They tried us again, but still we couldn't, and Rosamond seemed so terribly disappointed that we asked mother to tell us how it was done.
'You have to put your tongue over the milk and catch some of it up in the curve of it, and flick it into your throat in the same movement. That's all there is!'
'And quite enough,' sighed lazy Freddy.
'Dogs do it differently,' mother continued. 'They put their tongue under the milk or water, or whatever it is they want to drink, but they toss it into their mouths in precisely the same way.'
'I shall never do it,' poor Zobeide complained. 'You will have to nurse me all my days, mother.'