"
"I don't think bugs were made to smash," Tom said stoutly.
"Whew! What in thunder were they made for?" demanded the mocking
Rafe.
"I don't think God Almighty made things alive just for us to make
'em dead," said Tom, clumsily, and blushing a deep red.
Rafe laughed again. Rafe had read much more in a desultory
fashion than Tom.
"Tom ought to be one of those Brahmas," he said, chuckling.
"They carry a whisk broom to brush off any seat they may sit on
before they sit down, so's they sha'n't crush an ant, or any
other crawling thing. They're vegetarians, too, and won't take
life in any form."
"Now, Rafe!" exclaimed his mother, who was never quite sure when
her younger son was playing the fool. "You know that Brahmas are
hens. I've got some in my flock those big white and black,
lazy fowls, with feathers on their legs."
Nan had to laugh at that as well as Rafe. "Brahma fowl, I guess,
came from Brahma, or maybe Brahmaputra, all right. But Rafe
means Brahmans. They're a religious people of India," the girl
from Tillbury said.
"And maybe they've got it right," Tom said stubbornly. "Why
should we kill unnecessarily?"
Nan could have hugged him. At any rate, a new feeling for him
was born at that moment, and she applauded.
Pages:
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186