head to foot. He also did not seem the least bit shy! He was a lad about six years old, also dressed most peculiarly. His wide pants scarcely reached half-way down his thighs, and his little legs were bare from thence to his ankles. Very indecent, I thought. “Have you[1] come to see papa?” he asked all at once, and I immediately realized that the education of that child left much to be desired, otherwise he would have spoken in the second person plural. But as I felt a bit awkward myself, and therefore wanted to talk, I answered:
“Yes, little man, I have come to see your papa. Do you think he’ll soon be here?”
“I don’t know. He is out, looking for money to buy me a color-box” (Frits writes: colour-box, but I don’t. There is no need to make words longer by useless letters.)
“Quiet, my boy,” said the woman. “Play with your prints, or with your Chinese play-box.”
“Don’t you remember that that gentleman yesterday took everything away?”
He even addressed his mother in the second person singular, and it seemed that there had been a “gentleman” who had taken “everything away” . . . a cheerful visit! The woman did not seem too happy either, for she furtively wiped her eye, while taking the little girl to her young brother. “There,” she said, “play a little with Nonni.” A peculiar name. And he did.
“Well, Juffrouw,” I asked, “do you expect your husband soon?”
“I can’t say for certain,” she answered.
Suddenly the little boy, who had been playing at sailing ships with his little sister, left her and asked me:
“Sir, why do you say to my mother ‘Juffrouw’?”
“Well, little man,” I said, “what else should I say!”
“Why . . . the same as other people! The ‘Juffrouw’ is downstairs. She sells plates and peg tops.”
- ↑ He used the familiar second person singular, French “tu.”
