"What did you say you were, Sylvia?" asked Courage during the progress of the meal.
"Oh, I didn't say I was nuffin 't all," nervously fearing that in some unconscious way she might again have offended her new little mistress.
"Yes, you did, don't you know?" pretending not to notice the nervousness. "It was something nice to be; it began with kitchen."
"Oh, yes," said Sylvia, much relieved, "a kitchen-garden grajate. Want to see my di-diplomer?" including both Larry and Courage in one glance as she spoke. Wholly mystified as to what the article might be, both of course nodded yes, whereupon Sylvia, plunging one little black fist down the neck of her dress, vainly endeavored to bring something to the surface.
"It kinder sticks," she explained confidentially, but in another second a shining medal attached to a blue ribbon came flying out with appalling momentum. "Dere now," she said, giving a backward dive through the encircling ribbon, "dat's what I got for larning all dere was to larn."
Courage took the medal and examined it. It was made of some bright metal, and was stamped with the figure of a girl with a broom in her hand. Across the top were the words "Kitchen Garden," and on a little scroll at the bottom the name Sylvia Sylvester.
"Why do they call it a kitchen garden?" asked Courage, passing the medal on for Larry's inspection; "it's an awful funny name."
"Glory knows! ain't no sense in it, I reckon."
"And that medal," added Courage, "was a sort of a prize for doing things better than the others, wasn't it?"
"No, Miss Courage, dat's a reg'lar diplomer. All de chillens in de school had 'em when, dey grajated."
Courage looked appealingly toward Larry, to see if he knew what she meant, and Larry looked just as appealingly to Courage. The truth was, Sylvia had the best of them both. To be sure, she used a pronunciation of her own, but it was near enough to the original to have suggested graduate and diploma to minds in anywise familiar with the articles.
"And did they teach you to cook in the kitchen garden?" Courage asked, feeling that she must remain quite hopelessly in the dark regarding the words in question.
"No, dat was an extry. One ob de lady man'gers, Miss Caxton, teached us de cookin'. She was a lubly lady--sich a kind face, and sich daisy gray haar, and allers so jolly. She came twic't a week, case she was dat fond ob cookin' and liked chillens. She ses black skins didn't make no difference. One ob dese days I'se gwine to write down for yer all de dishes what she teached how to cook."