Holding the child of his brain hard in both hands lest it should escape prematurely, the little German went inside to preside over a repast, 133 the distinctively German incense of which ascended most appetizingly.
Hans, junior, in a childish treble, spoke an honest little German blessing, beginning “Mein Vater von Himmel,” and emphasized by the raps of Hans senior’s knuckles on certain other small heads to keep their owners quiet.
“Fresh lettuce and radishes!” commented Camilla, joyously.
“Raised in our own garden hinein,” bobbed Minna, in ecstasy.
“And sauerkraut––” began Ichabod.
“From cabbages so large,” completed Hans, spreading his arms to designate an imaginary vegetable of heroic proportions.
“They must have grown very fast to be so large in May,” commented Camilla.
Hans and Minna exchanged glances––pitying, superior glances––such as we give behind the backs of the infirm, or the very old; and the subject of vegetables dropped.
“A great country for a bank, this,” commented Mr. Becher, with infinite finesse and between intermittent puffs at a hot potato.