One of the cows was to have a calf, and George
was anxious to get there in time.
"I've never seen a real new calf, new absolutely," he explained. "And I
want a look at this one the very minute that he's born. Gee, I hope we can
get there in time--"
"Gee! So do I!" cried Bobby aged nine. And then Tad, the chubby
three-year-old who had been intently watching his brothers, slowly took the
spoon from his mouth and in his grave sweet baby voice said very softly,
"Gee." At her end of the table, Elizabeth, blonde and short and rather
plump, frowned and colored slightly. For she was eleven and she knew there
was something dark and shameful about the way calves appear in barns. And
so, with a quick conscious cough, she sweetly interrupted:
"Oh, Aunt Deborah! Won't you please tell us about--about--"
"About--about," jeered the ironical George. "About what, you little ninny?"
Poor Elizabeth blushed desperately. She was neither quick nor resourceful.
"Now, George," said his aunt warningly.
"Wasn't I talking?" the boy rejoined. "And didn't Betsy butt right
in--without even a thing to butt in about? About--about," he jeered again.
"About Paris!" cried his sister, successful at last in her frantic search
for a proper topic of conversation. "Aunt Deborah's trip to Paris!"
"How many times has she told it already?" her brother replied with
withering scorn. "And anyhow, I was talking of cows!"
"Very well," said his aunt, "we'll talk about cows, some cows I saw on a
lovely old farm in a little village over in France.
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