Tom was blushing.  “His name is Everychild, mother,” he said, “and he’s——­”

Old Mother Hubbard had removed her bonnet, which was a little affair of black velvet and jet ornaments.  She touched her hair with her finger tips here and there.  “I might have known as much!” she said.  “Everychild!  And I suppose you think it is quite right for Everychild to come tagging home after you, making work for other people?”

Tom cried out forlornly, “Oh, mother . . .”

As for Everychild, he was thinking—­“She’ll never let him go!” He was standing with one foot on top of the other in a very uncomfortable manner.  Still, he was trying to smile, as if to convey the idea that Old Mother Hubbard must be joking, of course.

But the old lady continued severely:  “I’ve warned you before.  You ought to know by this time that a house is a—­a house.”

Here Everychild managed to say, “I’ll not be a bit of trouble, Mother Hubbard, and—­and I’m very glad to meet you.”

She stared at him as if she were really seeing him for the first time.  But her temper broke forth again.  “Don’t tell me!” she exclaimed.  “I know what boys are.  You’ll not deny, I suppose, that you get ravenously hungry three times a day?”

Everychild was so amazed by this that he looked helplessly at Tom.

“Precisely!” continued Old Mother Hubbard.  “Well, you should have heard our President’s address yesterday afternoon on The Superfluous Table.”

Her son interrupted in great embarrassment, “Oh, mother, he doesn’t even know what you mean!”

“Per’aps not.  You’ve not told him, then, that your mother is Vice-President of the Mother Goose Auxiliary of the Amalgamated Associations of Notable Ladies?”

“No, mother,” said Tom, bending his head in shame.

“Well, at all events . . . the President went on to say that the dinner table was a relic of barbarism.  And she was quite right.  She cited cases known to all we ladies . . .”

Mr. Literal, from his place in the background, could not help saying to the Masked Lady, “Why is it that ladies with baritone voices always have trouble with their objective case?”

But the Masked Lady did not reply, and Old Mother Hubbard continued:  “There was the case of Mrs. Horner’s son—­her dear, dutiful little Jack.  When he ate his Christmas pie, where was he sitting? In a corner!  No dinner table there to cause a lot of work and worry.  And please note that he was delighted when he pulled out a plum.  Yet the plum is one of the simplest forms of—­of sustenance.  And there was Miss Muffet, daughter of the highly honored Mrs. Alonso Muffet.  During that meal which has become historic, where did she sit? On a tuffet!”

Everychild could not help asking, “What is a tuffet?”

But Old Mother Hubbard only regarded him blankly, as if there had been no interruption, and then she proceeded.  “And you will note what she was eating. Curds and whey—­perfectly simple yet nutritious fare.  There were other instances showing that the wasteful dinner table must go.  It was a wonderful address.  A treat.  A feast of good things.  A spiritual feast.”