r do it myself. And if he does work, it's done
so unwillingly, with such a poor grace; better, far better, to do it
myself. What housework do the boys ever do but looking after the baby?
And this afternoon she was asleep in the cradle, and off they went, and
when she awoke, _I_ must leave my work to take her. _I_ gave her her
supper, and put her to bed. And what with what they want and I have to
get, and what they take out to play with and lose, and what they bring
in to play with and leave about, bairns give some trouble, Mother, and
I've not an easy life of it. The pay is poor enough when one can get
the work, and the work is hard enough when one has a clear day to do it
in; but housekeeping and bairn-minding don't leave a man much time for
his trade. No! no! Ma'am, the luck of the Trouts is gone, and 'Bairns
are a burden,' is the motto now. Though they are one's own," he muttered
to himself, "and not bad ones, and I did hope once would have been a
blessing."

"There's Johnnie," murmured the old lady, dreamily. "He has a face like
an apple."

"And is about as useful," said the Tailor. "He might have been
different, but his brother leads him by the nose."

His brother led him in as the Tailor spoke, not literally by his snub,
though, but by the hand. They were a handsome pair, this lazy couple.
Johnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, the
reddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and most
twitchy of chins, and looked altogether like a gutta-percha cherub in a
chronic state of longitudinal squeeze. They were locked together by two
grubby paws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited on
the floor as they came in.

"I've swept this floor once to-day," said the father, "and I'm not
going to do it again. Put that rubbish outside." "Move it, Johnnie!"
said his brother, seating himself on a stool, and taking out his knife
and a piece of wood, at which he cut and sliced; while the
apple-cheeked Johnnie stumbled and stamped over the moss, and scraped
it out on the doorstep, leaving long trails of earth behind him, and
then sat down also.

"And those chips the same," added the Tailor; "I will _not_ clear up the
litter you lads make."

"Pick 'em up, Johnnie," said Thomas Trout, junior, with an exasperated
sigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, and
tumbled down again.

"Is there any supper, Father?" asked Tommy.

"No, there is not, Sir, unless you k