The first daughter replied hopelessly, "We couldn't do that. Her whip
. . . it's the kind of whip that grows, you understand."

"Some sort of limb?"

"You might call it that. But it's her own limb."

"Yes, if she got it first."

"She did. It's her hand."

"Do you mean," demanded Everychild, "that she whips all of you with her
hand?"

"And does a thorough job, too," said the first daughter.

Everychild assumed a very grave air. "How often does this happen?" he
asked.

"Every night," he was assured.

He made a very wry face. "But such things . . ." He couldn't think of
the right word at first. Then he asked, "But isn't it all very--very
vulgar?"

The first daughter sighed. "I suppose so," she admitted. "But when
there are so many children you can't help being a little vulgar."

The first son put in here: "And you mustn't think too hard of mother.
You can imagine her position: so many of us, and the high cost of