What terrible boys you are!" And, avoiding to fight about Jacob's wives with Jem, who was pertinacious and said very odd things, my mother did what women often do and are often wise in doing--she laid down her weapons and began to beseech.
"My darlings, call your nice little hens some other names.

Poor old mother doesn't like those." I was melted in an instant, and began to cast about in my head for new titles.

But Jem was softly obstinate, and he had inherited some of my mother's wheedling ways.

He took his hands from his pockets, flung his arms recklessly round her clean collar, and began stroking (or _pooring_, as we called it) her head with his grubby paws.

And as he _poored_ he coaxed--"Dear nice old mammy! It's only us.