d my Father. "Fire away!"

I looked at my Father. I looked at my Mother. I didn't know just which
one to begin with. Carol kicked me in the shins for encouragement. I
decided to begin with my Mother.

"Oh Mother," I said. "If you were a Beautiful Smell instead of a
Beautiful Mother,--what Beautiful Smell in the whole wide world--would
you choose to be?"

"Eh? What's that? _What?_" said my Father. "Well, of all the idiotic
foolishness! Of all the--"

"Why no--not at all," said my Mother. "Why--Why I think it's rather
interesting! Why--Why--Though I must admit," she laughed out suddenly,
"that I never quite thought of things in just that way before!" She
looked out the window. She looked in the fire-place. She looked at my
Father. She looked at Carol. She looked at me. She began to clap her
hands. "I've got it!" she said. "I know what I'd choose! A White Iris!
In all the world there's no perfume that can compare with the perfume of
a White Iris!--Orris root they call it. Orris--"

"Humph! What's the matter with Tulips?" said my Father.

"Oh but Tulips don't have any smell at all," said my Mother. "Except
just the nice earthy smell of Spring winds and Spring rains and Spring
sunbeams!--Oh of course they _look_ as though they were going to smell
tremendously sweet!" she acknowledged very politely. "But they're just
so busy being _gay_ I suppose that--"

"The Tulip Goldfinch," said my Father coldly, "is noted for its
fragrance."

"Oh dear--Oh dear--Oh dear," said my Mother. She seemed very
sorry. She folded her hands. "Oh very well," she said.
"Mondays,--Wednesdays,--Fridays,--and Sundays,--I will be the fragrance
of the Tulip Goldfinch. But Tuesdays,--Thursdays and Saturdays I really
must insist on being the fragrance of a White Iris!"

"Humph!" said my Father. "There aren't any of them that are worth the
nice inky lithograph smell of the first Garden Catalogues that come off
the presses 'long about February!"

My Mother clapped her hands again.

"Oh Goodie!" she said. "Write Father down as choosing to smell like 'the
nice inky lithograph smell of the first Garden Catalogues that come off
the presses 'long about February'!"

My Father had to tell us how to spell "Lithograph." Carol wrote it very
carefully. My Mother laughed.

"Well really," said my Mother, "I'm beginning to have a very good
time.--What is Question No. 2?"

"Question No. 2," I said, "is:--If you were a Beautiful Sound instead of
a Beautifu