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“YOU can’t help thinking when you listen to that boy,” said Mrs. Warner,
“that the Lord must want him in heaven. He has such a heavenly voice.”
“I think it more likely that God put an angel’s voice in Neddy’s throat
to give us a taste of heavenly music,” said grandma, looking up from the
apples she was paring.
“Bosh! you women folks are so everlastingly simple and silly that you
encourage the boy in his mischief;” and Farmer Warner set down the milk
pail with such a thud that the milk slopped over into the sauce his wife
was dishing for supper.
“Now, Henry, you have ruined that dish of apple sauce,” expostulated
Mrs. Warner; “and they’re the first apples of the season, too.”
“Never mind,” said grandma, “we’ll find something else. Just call the
boy to supper, Henry.”
“Indeed I won’t call him,” he sputtered. “For the past hour I’ve been
calling him to help with the chores, and I’ll call no more.”