So Why do I have to Sweep so Often?
Darcy and George hover round the dining table where Sam, an after-school nine-year-old, is eating his snack.
"George, Sam is eating his snack," Darcy observes. Children are very observant. I'm sure you've noticed.
Darcy and George have already finished vast quantities of their snack, sesame bread sticks dipped in baba ghanouj, with a side of honeydew melon chunks. Yum! Sam, however, doesn't eat the snack I provide. He brings one from home: today it's Oreo cookies, pretzels, a fruit roll-up, and a cheese stick, among other nutritionally suspect but attractive delights. Every day the boy brings a snack like this. George and Darcy hover round him like a pair of vultures waiting for the corpse to stop twitching.
"George! George, he's dropping crumbs!" Vulture number one is taut, eager, anticipatory. Vulture number two hones in on the action.
"George?" Darcy's tone is casual. "George, let's go under the table." If Darcy could whistle, he'd be doing it now. We're just going to play under the table, we are. La, la, la...
The vulture twins disappear from sight. Their voices arise from beneath.
George has found something. "Hey! This is a soccowa cwumb!"
Darcy is confused but willing. "Yeah! A soccer crumb!" Hey, you don't have to understand your friends to be supportive.
"No, not a soccer cwumb. A soccowit cwumb." "Let me see." A brief rustling. "Oh, a chocolate crumb!" "Mmm. It's good, huh?" More rustling. "Mmm, yeah. This one, too."