Birch, who had just
slipped into the room, joined in the merriment.
"There you are," chuckled Jeff. "That's what you get when you give the
donkey the solo part among the farmyard performers."
"He can sing as well as the peacock," retorted Just, with spirit.
"We were right in the middle of the _'Hungarian Intermezzo,'_" explained
Celia to the newcomers. "I stopped them to tell them why they needed to
look more carefully to their phrasing, and the children burst into this
sort of thing. What shall I do with them?"
"It's a great relief to feel that they're not altogether grown up, after
all," said Mr. Birch, helping himself to his favourite easy chair near
the fireplace. "There are times when we feel a strong suspicion that we
haven't any children any more. Moments like these assure us that we are
mistaken. Go on with your '_Intermezzo,_' but give us another nursery
song before you are through."
"Nursery song! That's pretty good," said Jeff, in Just's ear, and that
sixteen-year-old mumbled in reply, "I can throw you over my shoulder
just the same."
"Boys, come! We're ready!" called Celia, and the music began again.
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