"Well then, Auntie will get a nice piece of bread and
butter for each of you."
"Don't want bread an' butty!" shrieks Hans. "Want
tooky!"
"Cooky!" echoes Sheila, pounding on the kitchen table
with the rescued basting spoon.
"You can't have cookies before dinner. They're bad
for your insides."
"Can too," disputes Hans. "Fwieda dives us tookies.
Want tooky!" wailingly.
"Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie,"
wheedles Sheila, wriggling her soft little fingers in my
hand.
"But Mother never lets you have cookies before
dinner," I retort severely. "She knows they are bad for
you."
"Pooh, she does too! She always says, `No, not a
cooky!' And then we beg and screech, and then she says,
`Oh, for pity's sake, Frieda, give 'em a cooky and send
'em out. One cooky can't kill 'em.'" Sheila's imitation
is delicious.
Hans catches the word screech and takes it as his
cue. He begins a series of ear-piercing wails. Sheila
surveys him with pride and then takes the wail up in a
minor key. Their teamwork is marvelous. I fly to the
cooky jar and extract two round and sugary confections.
I thrust them into the pink, eager palms. The wails
cease. Solemnly they place one cooky atop the other,
measuring the circlets with grave eyes.
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