I remember the special case mentioned by Susy, and can see the group yet—­two-thirds of it pleading for the life of the culprit sentence that was so fascinatingly dreadful, and the other third of it patiently explaining why the court could not grant the prayer of the pleaders; but I do not remember what the condemned phrase was.  It had much company, and they all went to the gallows; but it is possible that that especially dreadful one which gave those little people so much delight was cunningly devised and put into the book for just that function, and not with any hope or expectation that it would get by the “expergator” alive.  It is possible, for I had that custom.

Little Jean was probably too youthful yet to take part in that literary arbitration.  She was four, and had more interest in cows.  In some memoranda which her father kept of that period—­the “Children’s Book”—­he says: 

She goes out to the barn with one of us every evening toward six o’clock, to look at the cows—­which she adores—­no weaker word can express her feeling for them.  She sits rapt and contented while David milks the three, making a remark now and then—­always about the cows.  The time passes slowly and drearily for her attendant, but not for her.  She could stand a week of it.  When the milking is finished, and “Blanche,” “Jean,” and “the cross cow” are turned into the adjoining little cow-lot, we have to set Jean on a shed in that lot, and stay by her half an hour, till Eliza, the German nurse, comes to take her to bed.  The cows merely stand there, and do nothing; yet the mere sight of them is all-sufficient for Jean.  She requires nothing more.  The other evening, after contemplating them a long time, as they stood in the muddy muck chewing the cud, she said, with deep and reverent appreciation, “Ain’t this a sweet little garden?”

Yesterday evening our cows (after being inspected and worshiped by Jean from the shed for an hour) wandered off down into the pasture and left her bereft.  I thought I was going to get back home, now, but that was an error.  Jean knew of some more cows in a field somewhere, and took my hand and led me thitherward.  When we turned the corner and took the right-hand road, I saw that we should presently be out of range of call and sight; so I began to argue against continuing the expedition, and Jean began to argue in favor of it, she using English for light skirmishing and German for “business.”  I kept up my end with vigor, and demolished her arguments in detail, one after the other, till I judged I had her about cornered.  She hesitated a moment, then answered up, sharply: 

    “Wir werden nichts mehr daruber sprechen!” (We won’t talk any more
    about it.)

    It nearly took my breath away, though I thought I might possibly
    have misunderstood.  I said: 

    “Why, you little rascal!  Was hast du gesagt?”