off yourself. You must conserve your energies, old friend. Sit down here in the shade.”
“Don’t want to sit down.”
“Well, take it easy, anyhow.”
The kid flitted to another topic like a butterfly hovering from flower to flower.
“I’m a good girl,” she said.
“I bet you are. I hope you’re a good egg-and-spoon racer, too.”
“Harold’s a bad boy. Harold squealed in church and isn’t allowed to come to the treat. I’m glad,” continued this ornament of her sex, wrinkling her nose virtuously, “because he’s a bad boy. He pulled my hair Friday. Harold isn’t coming to the treat! Harold isn’t coming to the treat! Harold isn’t coming to the treat!” she chanted, making a regular song of