At this stage of the memory game I would bury my face
in the warm grass and thank my God for having taken
Mother before Peter Orme came into my life. And then I
would fall asleep there on the soft, sweet grass, with my
head snuggled in my arms, and the ants wriggling,
unchided, into my ears.

On the last of these sylvan occasions I awoke, not
with a graceful start, like the story-book ladies, but
with a grunt. Sis was digging me in the ribs with her
toe. I looked up to see her standing over me, a foaming
tumbler of something in her hand. I felt that it was
eggy and eyed it disgustedly.

"Get up," said she, "you lazy scribbler, and drink
this."

I sat up, eyeing her severely and picking grass and
ants out of my hair.

"D' you mean to tell me that you woke me out of that
babe-like slumber to make me drink that goo? What is it,
anyway? I'll bet it's another egg-nogg."

"Egg-nogg it is; and swallow it right away, because
there are guests to see you."

I emerged from the first dip into the yellow mixture
and fixed on her as stern and terrible a look at any one
can whose mouth is encircled by a mustache of yellow