chair. But the spinach is never finach. Ask the dining-room rug.
An idea for you: when you grow up and have children of your own, get a dining-room rug that is spinach-coloured.
The best stories are those Mother tells for Blythe's benefit, coming home in the car. After a long drive, perhaps out Farmingdale way to buy fresh vegetables from the stalls along the road, small passengers get restless and bickerish. I don't know why it is: Mr. Mistletoe has to brood and think a long while before he can tell a story, but Mother can spin a yarn right off the reel. The older children relish those stories too, with all the professional zest of literary critics, for they can appreciate how subtly the fable is adapted to Blythe's requirements, her mood and station in life. One of them is the story of Chickens in the Field. I have never heard it told, only heard it spoken of. As I say, it is Mother's story, and she is the one who can tell it properly.
One of the musics that Blythe makes up for herself, as the car hums along the road, is Chickens in the Field. "Chickens, chickens, in the field," she sings, many many times, to a tune of
