"You can't have cookies before dinner. They're bad
for your insides."

"Can too," disputes Hans. "Fwieda dives us tookies.
Want tooky!" wailingly.

"Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie,"
wheedles Sheila, wriggling her soft little fingers in my
hand.

"But Mother never lets you have cookies before
dinner," I retort severely. "She knows they are bad for
you."

"Pooh, she does too! She always says, `No, not a
cooky!' And then we beg and screech, and then she says,
`Oh, for pity's sake, Frieda, give 'em a cooky and send
'em out. One cooky can't kill 'em.'" Sheila's imitation
is delicious.

Hans catches the word screech and takes it as his
cue. He begins a series of ear-piercing wails. Sheila
surveys him with pride and then takes the wail up in a
minor key. Their teamwork is marvelous. I fly to the
cooky jar and extract two round and sugary confections.
I thrust them into the pink, eager palms. The wails
cease. Solemnly they place one cooky atop the other,
measuring the circlets with grave eyes.