I can never get her interested in my
cows. Her mind must have been far away when she dished up the mush, for
she has forgotten something."
"Oh, I beg pardon," exclaimed the forgetful girl. "Let me attend to it."
She went to the cupboard and brought out the sugar and a paper of ground
cinnamon, and sprinkled a layer of each over the plates of mush. Then
she pressed into the middle of each a lump of butter which soon melted
into a tiny yellow pond.
"I should like to hear some of these ideas of yours," remarked the
visitor to Signe, who had so far forgotten her manners as to be blowing
her spoonful of mush before dipping it into the butter.
"I wish I were an artist," said she, without seeming to notice his
remarks. "Ah, what pictures I would paint! I would make them so natural
that you could see the pine tops wave, and smell the breath of the woods
as you looked at them."
"You would put me in, standing on The Look-out blowing my _lur_,
wouldn't you?"
"Certainly.
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