CHAPTER XLIV
Tom’s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. “I haven’t any idea,” she replied. “Do you suppose baby may, Meg?”
Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. “What was that?” she asked.
“ Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?”
“ I haven’t the least notion,” answered Margaret, and took up her work again.
“ Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?”
Tom held out his arms.
“ Tha
