MRS. HUBBARD. Little Isabel. Her cough troubles me.
MR. HUBBARD (thoughtfully). Isabel?
MRS. HUBBARD. Yes, dear, our youngest. Don't you remember, she comes
after Harold?
MR. HUBBARD (counting on his fingers). A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I--dear
me, have we got nine already?
MRS. HUBBARD (imploringly). Darling, say you don't think it's too
many.
MR. HUBBARD. Oh no, no, not at all, my love . . . After all, it isn't as
if they were real children.
MRS. HUBBARD (indignantly). Henry! How can you say they are not real?
MR. HUBBARD. Well, I mean they're only the children we thought we'd
like to have if Father Christmas gave us any.
MRS. HUBBARD. They are just as real to me as if they were here in the
house. Ada, Bertram, Caroline, the high-spirited Dennis, pretty Elsie
with the golden ringlets, dear little fair-haired Frank--
MR. HUBBARD (firmly). Darling one, Frank has curly brown hair. It was
an understood thing that you should choose the girls, and _I_ should
choose the boys. When we decided to take--A, B, C, D, E, F--a sixth
child, it was my turn for a boy, and I selected Frank. He has curly
brown hair and a fondness for animals.
MRS. HUBBARD. I daresay you're right, dear. Of course it is a little
confusing when you never see your children.
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