"Jacob had two wives," he said; and he chanted on, quoting imperfectly
from Dr. Watts's _Scripture Catechism_, "And Jacob was a good man,
therefore his brother hated him."

"No, no, Jem," said I, "that was Abel. Jacob was Isaac's younger son,
and----"

"Hush! Hush! Hush!" said my mother. "You're not to do Sunday lessons on
week-days. 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. What can it
matter? Do let us call our bantams what we like."

And my mother gave in before I had time to.

The dialogue I held with Jem about the bantams after the walnut raid was
as follows: