I thumped her on the back, picked her up and dropped her on top of her dungarees. “Put them pants on,” I said, “and be a man.” She did, but she cried quietly until I shook her and said gently, “Stop it now. I didn’t carry on like that when I was a little girl.” I got into my clothes and dumped her into the bow of the canoe and shoved off.All the way back to the cabin I forced her to play one of our pet games. I would say something—anything—and she would try to say something that rhymed with it. Then it would be her turn. She had an extraordinary rhythmic sense, and an excellent ear.I started off with “We’ll go home and eat our dinners.”“An’ Lord have mercy on us sinners,” she cried. Then, “Let’s see you find a rhyme for ‘month’!”“I bet I’ll do it … jutht thith onthe,” I replied. “I guess I did it then, by cracky.”“Course you did, but then you’re wacky. Top that, mister funny-lookin’!”I pretended I couldn’t, mainly because I couldn’t, and she soundly kicked my shin as a penance. By the time we reached the cabin she was her usual self, and I found myself envying the resilience of youth. And she earned my undying respect by saying nothing to Anjy about the afternoon’s events, even when Anjy looked us over and said, “Just look at you two filthy kids! What have you been doing—swimming in the bayou?”“Daddy splashed me,” said Patty promptly.“And you had to splash him back. Why did he splash you?”“ ’Cause I spit mud through my teeth at him to make him mad,” said my outrageous child.“Patty!”“Mea culpa,” I said, hanging my head. “ ’Twas I who spit the mud.”Anjy threw up her hands. “Heaven knows what sort of a woman Patty’s going to grow up to be,” she said, half angrily.“A broad-minded and forgiving one like her lovely mother,” I said quickly.“Nice work, bud,” said Patty.Anjy laughed. “Outnumbered again. Come in and feed the face.
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