She boxes
somebody's ears, snatches the eggs, gives them one final puffy
beating, which causes them to foam up and overflow, and at that
exciting moment out they bubble into the smoking skillet, the handle
of which she seizes at the identical moment that she lets go of the
empty bowl with one hand and pushes the red-faced boy over backward
with the other. It is legerdemain! But then, _how_ she manages that
skillet! How her red cheeks flush, her black eyes sparkle, and her
plump hands guide that ship of state!
We are all so excited that we get horribly in her way and almost fall
into the fire in our anxiety. She stirs and coaxes and coquettes with
the lovely foamy mass until it becomes as light as the yellow down on
a fledgling's wings. She calls it an omelette, but she is scrambling
those eggs! Then when it is almost done she screams at us to take our
places. The red-faced boy rings a huge bell, and we all tumble madly
up the narrow stairs to the dining-room, where a score of assorted
tourists are seated. _They_ get that first omelette because they
behaved better than we did, and were more orderly.
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