"'Lit-tle ones to him be-long,
Vey are weak, but he is strong.'
"Mam-ma-a-a!" Mac's burst of psalmody ended in a roar.
"Yes, Mac. Here I am."
"Where?"
"Upstairs, packing."
Mac toiled up the stairs and into his mother's room.
"I fought maybe you wanted to see me," he observed. "What for you putting
all vose fings into ve box?"
"Because we are going to see grandpapa and Aunt Teddy, and then we are
all going to the seashore."
"What is ve seashore?"
"The ocean, the great, broad blue water without any edge to it, where the
waves keep tumbling over and over on the beach."
"What's beach?" he demanded. Always used to the mountains, the
phraseology of the sea was a new tongue to him.
"It's the edge of the water," his mother said absently, while she tried
to fold an organdie gown to the best advantage.
"But you said vere wouldn't be any edge," he protested, for he was
nothing if not logical, and he insisted upon logic from others.
"Well, never mind now. Run away, dear, and I'll tell you about it, some
other time."
But Mac festooned himself across the open box couch.
"No; sometime isn't ever, and I wants to hear it now. I do 'clare, mamma,
you've put in my best coat." And before she could stop him, he had
pounced upon it and pulled it out, upsetting a superstratum of gowns in
the process.
"Mac, let that be."
"But I want it, mamma. I want to wear it. I look just too sweet in it."
"Mac!"
"Well, vat's what Lizabuf said. Will Lizabuf go too?"
"No."
"Who will take care of me, and put me into my coatsleeves ven?"
"I shall."
"I'd ravver have Lizabuf. Oh, mamma, is vat your swishy dress? It's so
beautiful!" This time, Mac lost his balance and plunged headlong into the
trunk. For one moment, his chubby legs waved in the air; then his mother
seized him and set him down in a chair at the farther side of the room.
"Now, Mac, I want you to stay there," she said with decision.