"Hello yourself! I ain't a little boy."

She ignored the correction. "What are you doing?"

"Weedin' carrots. Can't you see?"

"What for?"

Bryce, highly incensed at having been designated a little boy by this
superior damsel, saw his opportunity to silence her. "Cat's fur for
kitten breeches," he retorted--without any evidence of originality,
we must confess. Whereat she stung him to the heart with a sweet
smile and promptly sang for him this ancient ballad of childhood:

"What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Snakes and snails,
And puppy dog's tails,
And that's what little boys are made of."

Bryce knew the second verse and shrivelled inwardly in anticipation
of being informed that little girls are made of sugar and spice and
everything nice. Realizing that he had begun something which might
not terminate with credit to himself, he hung his head and for the
space of several minutes gave all his attention to his crop. And
presently the visitor spoke again.

"I like your hair, little boy. It's a pretty red."