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Patty and Azalea
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Oh, Little Billee! Come quick, for goodness' sake! The baby's choking! Patty was in the sun parlour, her arms full of a fluttering bundle of lace and linen, and her blue eyes wide with dismay at her small daughter's facial contortions. "Only with laughter," Bill reassured her after a quick glance at the restless infant. "Give her to me." The baby nestled comfortably in his big, powerful arms, and Patty sat back in her chair and watched them both. "What a pleasure," she said, complacently, "to be wife and mother to two such fine specimens of humanity! She grows more and more like you every day, Little Billee." "Well, if this yellow fuzz of a head and this pinky peach of a face is like anybody in the world except Patty Farnsworth, I'll give up! Why, she's the image of you,-except when she makes these grotesque grimaces,-like a Chinese Joss." "Stop it! You shan't call my baby names! She's a booful-poofle! She's a hunny-bunny! She's her mudder's pressus girly-wirly, -so she wuz!"
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