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"But what are you now, Jorgli, if you are no longer goat-boy?" began Moni. "You must be something." "Surely I am something, and something very good," replied Jorgli, "I am egg-boy. Every day I carry eggs to all the hotels, as far as I can go; I come up here to the Bath House, too. Yesterday I was there." Moni shook his head. "That's nothing.
"Marge, Marge, here is the egg-boy!" Marge dropped her book and ran to join her sister Elsie, who by this time was on the back piazza talking to a boy who had just driven up in a farm-wagon. "We want two dozen more, all nice big ones, and by to-morrow, for it is only three days before Easter, and they must be boiled and colored to be ready in season." The boy stared.
I wouldn't be an egg-boy; I would a thousand times rather be goat-boy, it is much finer." "But why?" "Eggs are not alive, you can't speak a word to them, and they don't run after you like the goats which are glad to see you when you come, and are fond of you, and understand every word you say to them; you can't have any pleasure with eggs as you can with the goats up here."
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