THE SONG OF THE LARK
strong in Thea, though in her it took a very different character.
Tillie was a queer, addle-pated thing, as flighty as a girl at thirty-five, and overweeningly fond of gay clothes—which taste, as Mrs. Kronborg philosophically said, did nobody any harm. Tillie was always cheerful, and her tongue was still for scarcely a minute during the day. She had been cruelly overworked on her father's Minnesota farm when she was a young girl, and she had never been so happy as she was now; had never before, as she said, had such social advantages. She thought her brother the most important man in Moonstone. She never missed a church service, and, much to the embarrassment of the children, she always "spoke a piece" at the Sunday-School concerts. She had a complete set of "Standard Recitations," which she conned on Sundays. This morning, when Thea and her two younger brothers sat down to breakfast, Tillie was remonstrating with Gunner because he had not learned a recitation assigned to him for George Washington Day at school. The unmemorized text lay heavily on Gunner's conscience as he attacked his buckwheat cakes and sausage. He knew that Tillie was in the right, and that "when the day came he would be ashamed of himself."
"I don't care," he muttered, stirring his coffee; "they ought n't to make boys speak. It 's all right for girls. They like to show off."
"No showing off about it. Boys ought to like to speak up for their country. And what was the use of your father buying you a new suit, if you 're not going to take part in anything?"
"That was for Sunday-School. I 'd rather wear my old one, anyhow. Why did n't they give the piece to Thea?" Gunner grumbled.
Tillie was turning buckwheat cakes at the griddle. "Thea can play and sing, she don 't need to speak. But you 've got to know how to do something, Gunner, that
20
