But the persevering No. 5 proceeded to explain. No. 6 had asked him
a few days before to bring her some groundsel for her canary, and he
had been quite disappointed at finding none in the garden. He had
actually to "trail" into the lanes to fetch a bit.

This was a puzzling statement; so No. 6 contented herself with
grumbling out:-

"Weeds are welcome to grow in the lanes."

"Weeds are not always weeds in the lanes," persisted No. 5, with a
grin: "they're sometimes wild-flowers."

"I don't care what they are," pouted No. 6. "I wish I lived in a
place where there were none."

"And I wish I was a great man, with lots of gardeners to take them
up, instead of me," maintained No. 5, who was in a mood of lazy
tiresomeness, and kept rocking to and fro on the garden-chair, with
his hands tucked under his thighs. "A weed--a weed," continued he;
"what is a weed, I wonder? Aunt Judy, what is a weed?"

Aunt Judy had surely been either dreaming or cogitating during the
last few minutes, for she had taken no notice of what was said, but
she roused up now, and answered:-

"A vegetable out of its place."

"A VEGETABLE," repeated No. 5, "why we don't eat them, Aunt Judy."