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Updated: May 19, 2025
"It will not be very long, Billy," I said. "We don't want to go until we can leave the perambulator behind. The Sally-baby toddles now, but she must be able to walk on the English downs and the Highland heather." "And the Irish bogs," interpolated Billy, who has a fancy for detail.
"Shall we come home again from the other countries?" asked Billy. "Of course, sonny! The little Beresfords must come back and grow up with their own country." "Am I a little Beresford, mother?" asked Francie, looking wistfully at her brother as belonging to the superior sex and the eldest besides. "Certainly." "And is the Sally-baby one too?" Himself laughed unrestrainedly at this.
"Well, the Irish bogs are not always easy travelling," I answered, "but the Sally-baby will soon be old enough to feel the spring of the Irish turf under her feet." "What will the chickens and ducklings and pigeons do while we are gone?" asked Francie. "An' the lammies?" piped the Sally-baby, who has all the qualities of Mary in the immortal lyric.
Francie was walking over the green-sward with a bowl and spoon, just as our Scottish men friends used to do with oat-meal at breakfast time. The Sally-baby was blowing bubbles in her milk, and Himself and I were discussing a book lately received from London. Suddenly I saw Billy, who had wandered from the table, sitting on the steps bending over a tiny bird's egg in his open hand.
"And then, as I was saying before being interrupted by the entire family, we will go and visit the Irish cousins, Jackeen and Broona, who belong to Aunt Salemina and Uncle Gerald, and the Sally-baby will be the centre of attraction because she is her Aunt Salemina's godchild " "But we are all God's children," insisted Billy. "Of course we are."
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