uring them over
the surface of the roast in approved basting style, when there is a
rush, a scramble, and two hard bodies precipitate themselves upon my
legs so suddenly that for a moment my head pitches forward into the
oven. I withdraw my head from the oven, hastily. The basting spoon is
immersed in the bottom of the pan. I turn, indignant. The Spalpeens look
up at me with innocent eyes.

"You little divils, what do you mean by shoving your old aunt into the
oven! It's cannibals you are!"

The idea pleases them. They release my legs and execute a savage war
dance around me. The Spalpeens are firm in the belief that I was brought
to their home for their sole amusement, and they refuse to take me
seriously. The Spalpeens themselves are two of the finest examples
of real humor that ever were perpetrated upon parents. Sheila is the
first-born. Norah decided that she should be an Irish beauty, and
bestowed upon her a name that reeks of the bogs. Whereupon Sheila, at
the age of six, is as flaxen-haired and blue-eyed and stolid a little
German madchen as ever fooled her parents, and she is a feminine
reproduction of her German Dad. Two years later came a sturdy boy, and
they named him Hans, in a flaunt of defiance. Hans is black-haired,
gray-eyed and Irish as Killarny.

"We're awful hungry," announces Sheila.

"Can't you wait until dinner time? Such a grand dinner!"

Sheila and Hans roll their eyes to convey to me that, were they to wait
until dinner for sustenance we should find but their lifeless forms.

"Well then, Auntie will get a nice piece of bread and butter for each of
you."

"Don't want bread an' butty!" shrieks Hans. "Want tooky!"

"Cooky!" echoes Sheila, pounding on the kitchen table with the rescued
basting spoon.

"You can't have cookies before dinner. They're bad for your insides."

"Can too," disputes Hans. "Fwieda dives us tookies. Want tooky!"
wailingly.

"Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie," wheedles Sheila, wriggling
her soft little fingers in my hand.

"But Mother never lets you have cookies before dinner," I retort
severely. "She knows they are bad for you."

"Pooh, she does too! She always says, 'No, not a cooky!' And then we beg
and screech, and then she says, 'Oh, for pity's sake, Frieda, give 'em
a cooky and send 'em out. One cooky can't kill 'em.'" Sheila's imitation
is delicious.

Hans catches the word screech and takes it as his cue. He begins a
series of ear-piercing w