Fritz gave Baby a friendly pat on the back.
"You'll tell me, old fellow, won't you?" he said. Baby looked at him.
"Yes," he said at last; "him will tell you,'cos you let him have Peepy-'noozle, and 'cos you doesn't call him a goose – like girls does. I'll whister in your ear, Fritz, if you'll bend down."
But Celia thought this was too bad.
"I didn't call you a goose, Baby," she said. "I think you might tell me too."
"And I'll promise never to call you a goose again if you'll tell me," said Denny.
Baby had a great soul. It was beneath him to take a mean revenge, he felt, especially on a girl! So he shut his little mouth tightly, knit his little brows, and thought it over for a moment or two. Then his face cleared.
"Him will tell you all – all you children," he said at last, "but it's werry long and dedful wonderful, and you mustn't inrumpt him. P'omise?"
"Promise," shouted the three.
"Well then, litsen. We's all goin' away – zeally away – over the sea – dedful far. As far as the sky, p'raps."
"In a balloon?" said Denny, whose tongue wouldn't keep still even though she was very much interested in the news.
"No, in a boat," replied Baby, forgetting to notice that this was an "inrumption," "in a werry 'normous boat. All's going. Him was looking for 'tamps in mother's basket of teared letters under the little table, and mother and ganfather and auntie didn't know him were there, and ganfather said to mother somesing him couldn't understand – somesing about thit house, and mother said, yes, 'twould be a werry good thing to go away 'fore the cold weather comed, and the children would be p'eased. And auntie said she would like to tell the children, but – "
Another "inrumption." This time from Fritz.
"Baby, stop a minute," he exclaimed. "Celia, Denny – Baby's too little to understand, but," and here Fritz's round chubby face got very red, "don't you think we've no right to let him tell, if it's something mother means to tell us herself? She didn't know Baby was there – he said so."
But before Celia or Denny could answer, Baby turned upon Fritz.
"Him tolded you not to inrumpt," he said, with supreme contempt. "If you would litsen you would see. Mother did know him was there at the ending, for auntie said she'd like to tell the children – that's you, and Denny and Celia – but him comed out from the little table and said him would like to tell the children hisself. And mother were dedful surprised, and so was ganfather and auntie. And then they all bursted out laughing and told him lots of things – about going in the railway, and in a 'normous boat to that other country, where there's cows to pull the carts, and all the people talk lubbish-talk, like Lisa when she's cross. And zen, and zen, him comed upstairs to tell you."
Baby looked round triumphantly. Celia and Fritz and Denny looked first at him and then at each other. This was wonderful news – almost too wonderful to be true.
"We must be going to Italy or somewhere like that," said Celia. "How lovely! I wonder why they didn't tell us before?"
"Italy," repeated Denny, "that's the country like a boot, isn't it? I do hope there won't be any snakes. I'd rather far stay at home than go where there's snakes."
"I wouldn't," said Fritz, grandly. "I'd like to go to India or Africa, or any of those places where there's lots of lions and tigers and snakes, and anything you like. Give me a good revolver and you'd see."
"Don't talk nonsense, Fritz," said Celia. "You're far too little a boy for shooting and guns and all that. It's setting a bad example to Baby to talk that boasting way, and it's very silly too."
"Indeed, miss. Much obliged to you, miss," said Fritz. "I'd only just like to know, miss, who it was came to my room the other night and was sure she heard robbers, and begged Fritz to peep behind the swing-door in the long passage. And 'oh,' said this person, 'I do so wish you had a gun that you could point at them to frighten them away.' Fritz wasn't such a very little boy just then."
Celia's face got rather red, and she looked as if she was going to get angry, but at that moment, happily, Lisa appeared with the tray for the nursery tea. She had left the room when the dormouse was caught, so she had not heard the wonderful news, and it had all to be told over again. She smiled and seemed pleased, but not as surprised as the children expected.
"Why, aren't you surprised, Lisa?" said the children. "Did you know before? Why didn't you tell us?"
Lisa shook her head and looked very wise.
"What country are we going to? Can you tell us that?" said Celia.
"Is it to your country? Is it to what you call Dutchland?" said Fritz. "I think it's an awfully queer thing that countries can't be called by the same names everywhere. It makes geography ever so much harder. We've got to call the people that live in Holland Dutch, and they call themselves – oh, I don't know what they call themselves – "
"Hollanders," said Lisa.
"Hollanders!" repeated Fritz. "Well, that's a sensible sort of name for people that live in Holland. But we've got to call them Dutch; and then, to make it more muddled still, Lisa calls her country Dutchland, and the people Dutch, and we call them German I think it's very stupid. If I was to make geography I wouldn't do it that way."
"What's jography?" said Baby.
"Knowing all about all the countries and all the places in the world," said Denny.
"Him wants to learn that," said Baby.
"Oh, you're far too little!" said Denny. "I only began it last year. Oh, you're ever so much too little!"
"Him's not too little to go in the 'normous boat to see all zem countlies," said Baby, valiantly. "Him will learn jography."
"That's right, Baby," said Fritz. "Stick up for yourself. You'll be a great deal bigger than Denny some day."
Denny was getting ready an answer when Lisa, who knew pretty well the signs of war between Fritz and Denny, called to all the children to come to tea; and as both Fritz and Denny were great hands at bread and butter, they forgot to quarrel, and began pulling their chairs in to the table, and in a few minutes all four were busy at work.
What a pretty sight, and what a pleasant thing a nursery tea is! when the children, that is to say, are sweet-faced and smiling, with clean pinafores, and clean hands, and gentle voices; not leaning over the table, knocking over cups, and snatching rudely at the "butteriest" pieces of bread and butter, and making digs at the sugar when nurse is not looking. That kind of nursery tea is not to my mind, and not at all the kind to which I am always delighted to receive an invitation, written in very round, very black letters, on very small sheets of paper. The nursery teas in Baby's nursery were not always quite what I like to see them, for Celia, Fritz, and Denny, and Baby too, had their tiresome days as well as their pleasant ones, and though they meant to be good to each other, they did not always do just what they meant, or really wished, at the bottom of their hearts. But to-day all the little storms were forgotten in the great news, and all the faces looked bright and eager, though just at first not much was said, for when children are hungry of course they can't chatter quite so fast, and all the four tongues were silent till at least one cup of tea, and perhaps three or four slices of bread and butter each – just as a beginning, you know – had disappeared.
Then said Celia, —
"Lisa, do tell us if you know what sort of a place we're going to."
"Cows pulls carts there," observed Baby; "and – and – what was the 'nother thing? We'll have frogses for dinner."
"Baby!" said the others, "what nonsense!"
"'Tisn't nonsense. Ganfather said Thomas and Dones wouldn't go 'cos they was fightened of frogses for dinner. Him doesn't care – frogses tastes werry good."
"How do you know? You've never tasted them," said Fritz.
"Ganfather