"You go play and mind your own business," her mother said mildly.
"Go look out the window."
"Can't I daub up Herman and give him a feather?"
"Not while he's good," Mrs. Luby said of the baby who now sat nodding in his perilously tall and narrow highchair, with his wet chin on his wet bib. "I sometimes daub his fingers with a little molasses," she explained, "and give him a feather and he'll pick it off first one hand and then the other hand for the longest time."
--From Good Morning, Young Lady