Conversation; or, Pilgrims' Progress

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“That doesn’t make sense, daddy.”

“Neither it does. But what does it matter? What’s the difference between a loo and a lee? And now then, young woman, how about getting out of that there bath. It’s late! Look how late it is! It’s autumn! The leaves are falling off the trees! It’s going to be cold, you’ll catch your death of cold!”

“Oh, but it’s so nice in here. Can I do just one handsquirt, just one?”

“Just one. And the leaves came tumbling down—”

“Why do the leaves come off the trees, daddy?”

“Now out you get. Up—!”

He loved to feel the firm small wet body, the compact little chest, between his hands, the legs wriggling and thrusting for the bathmat as he put her down: it was as good as eating, as good as drinking. As good as singing, as good as autumn. The round face, the blue eyes, emerged from the rapid towel to say:

“But why do the leaves tumble off the trees!”

“Listen to them scuttling like mice in the pathway, listen to them blowing!”

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