None came. This last exploit
of Pa's was too much for Ma.
With a gasp she snatched the baby from Pa's arms, and ordered him
to go out and put the mare in. When Pa returned to the kitchen
Ma had set the baby on the sofa, fenced him around with chairs
so that he couldn't fall off and given him a molassed cooky.
"Now, Pa Sloane, you can explain," she said.
Pa explained. Ma listened in grim silence until he had finished.
Then she said sternly:
"Do you reckon we're going to keep this baby?"
"I--I-- dunno," said Pa. And he didn't.
"Well, we're NOT. I brought up one boy and that's enough.
I don't calculate to be pestered with any more. I never was much
struck on children _as_ children, anyhow. You say that Mary Garland
had a brother out in Mantioba? Well, we shall just write to him
and tell him he's got to look out for his nephew."
"But how can you do that, Ma, when nobody knows his address?"
objected Pa, with a wistful look at that delicious, laughing baby.
"I'll find out his address if I have to advertise in the papers for him,"
retorted Ma. "As for you, Pa Sloane, you're not fit to be out of a
lunatic asylum. The next auction you'll be buying a wife, I s'pose?"
Pa, quite crushed by Ma's sarcasm, pulled his chair in to supper.
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