"The other one you made me had a paper sail, Uncle Jed."
Jed pleaded that he had no paper. "There's some wrapped 'round the
lunch," he said, "but it's all butter and such. 'Twouldn't be any
good for a sail. Er--er--don't you think we'd better put off
makin' the sail till we get home or--or somewheres? This chowder
is sort of on my conscience this minute."
Babbie evidently did not think so. She went away on an exploring
expedition. In a few minutes she returned, a sheet of paper in her
hand.
"It was blowing around just where I found the shingle," she
declared. "It's a real nice place to find things, up on that hill
place, Uncle Jed."
Jed took the paper, looked at it absently--he had taken off his
coat during the fire-building and his glasses were presumably in
the coat pocket--and then hastily doubled it across, thrust the
mast of the "shingle boat" through it at top and bottom, and handed
the craft to his small companion.
"There!" he observed; "there she is, launched, rigged and all but
christened. Call her the--the 'Geranium'--the 'Sunflower'--what's
the name of that doll baby of yours? Oh, yes, the 'Petunia.' Call
her that and set her afloat."
But Barbara shook her head.
"I think," she said, "if you don't mind, Uncle Jed, I shall call
this one 'Ruth,' that's Mamma's name, you know. The other one you
made me was named for Petunia, and we wouldn't want to name 'em ALL
for her.
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