I print the names they wish to copy very distinctly in big letters.
Richard does the type-setting, which is altogether too slow work for Ian,
who, as pressman, does the inking and printing, and in the process has
actually learned his tardy letters. As to the distributing and cleaning
of the type, I find a little assistance is gratefully accepted, even by
patient Richard, whose dear little pointed fingers by this time have
become tired, and fumble.
To-day, having exhausted the simple family names, they have tried
combinations and experiments with the words Mr., Mrs., and Miss, much
to their own amusement, "_Miss_ Timothy Saunders" being considered a
huge joke.
Suddenly Ian looked up with one of his most compelling, whimsical smiles,
and said, "Barbara, grandpop's Mrs. was grandma, and she's in heaven, but
where is Mrs. Uncle Martin?"
Rather startled, I said that I didn't know,--that there had never been
any Mrs. Uncle Martin.
"Why not?" persisted Ian, an answer that is simply an acknowledgment of
ignorance never being accepted by a child. Before I could think Richard
chirped out: "But Aunt Lavinia hasn't any Mr. for her card neiver, and
Martha, she said the other day that there was a Mr. and a Mrs. for
everybody, only sometimes they couldn't find each other for ever so long.
She told that to Effie, and I heard her."
A short pause, and then Ian jumped up, clapping his hands with joy, as
the solution of the problem flashed across him.
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