“Munny, my iron’s twite told; pease put it down to warm.”
The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came from a little sunny-haired girl between three and four, who, seated on a high chair at the end of the ironing table, was arduously clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an assiduity that required her to put her little red tongue out as far as anatomy would allow.
“Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!” said Mrs. Poyser, who was remarkable for the facility with which she could relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fondness or of friendly converse. “Never mind! Mother’s done her ironing now. She’s going to put the ironing things away.”
“Munny, I tould ‘ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd.”
