Cheaper by the Dozen

Mother for a ride in his first automobile, some early ancestor of Foolish Carriage. As Dad and Mother, dressed in dusters and wearing goggles, went scorching through the streets of Boston, bystanders tossed insults and ridicule in their direction.
    "Get a horse, get a horse."
    Dad started to shout back an answer, but thought better of it. He was already in love with Mother, and was anxious to make a good impression. Mother's shyness and ladylike demeanor had a quieting effect on him, and he was displaying his most genteel behavior.
    "Get a horse. Twenty-three skiddoo."
    It was almost more than Dad could bear, but he didn't answer.
    "Say, Noah, what are you doing with that Ark?"
    That did it. Dad slowed the car and cocked his checkered cap belligerently over one eye.
    "Collecting animals like the good Lord told me," he screamed back. "All I need now is a jackass. Hop in."
    After that, Dad decided he might as well be himself, and his breezy personality and quick laugh made Mother forget her shyness and reserve. Soon she found herself laughing almost as loud and as long at his jokes as he.
    As was its custom, the automobile inevitably broke down, and crowds of children gathered around. Mother stopped them from breathing down Dad's neck by taking them aside and telling them stories. When the car was fixed and they were on their way again, Dad asked her how she had managed to hold the children's attention.
    "I told them some stories from Alice in Wonderland,"
    Mother said. "You see, I have eight younger brothers and sisters, and I know what children like."
    "Alice in Wonderland," Dad exclaimed. "You mean kids really like that? They must be raising different kinds of kids than when I was a boy. I never could get into it, myself."
    "Of course they like it; they love it," Mother said. "You really should read it. I think everybody should. It's a classic."
    "If you say so, Miss Lillie," said Dad, who had already made up his mind she was going to be Mrs. Gilbreth, "I'll read it."
    Mother went on to Europe. After her return, Dad followed her out to the West Coast.
    When he arrived at Oakland, he telephoned the Mollers' house.
    "Hello," he said, "who do you think this is?"
    "Really, I have no idea."
    "Well guess, can't you?"
    "No, I'm sorry, I have no idea."
    "Aw, you know who it is," said Dad, who now had read the book that Mother said everyone should read. "It's the White Rabbit from Boston."
    "The who?"
    "The White Rabbit from Boston."
    "Oh, I see. I think you must want to talk with one of my daughters."
    "My God," said Dad, who didn't stop swearing until after he was married. "Who's this?"
    "This is Mrs. Moller. To whom did you wish to speak?"
    "May I please speak with Miss Lillie?" Dad asked meekly. "Who should I say is calling?"
    "You might say Mr. Rabbit, please," said Dad. "Mr. W. Rabbit, of Boston."
    A few days later, Dad was invited to Mother s house for tea, where he met her mother and father and most of her brothers and sisters. A workman was building a new fireplace in the living room, and as Dad was escorted through that room he stopped to watch the man laying bricks.
    "Now there's an interesting job," Dad in a conversational tone to the Mollers. "Laying brick. It looks easy to me. Dead easy. I don't see why these workmen claim that laying brick is skilled labor. I'll bet anyone could do it."
    "Right this way, Mr. Gilbreth," said Mother's father. "We're having tea on the porch."
    Dad wouldn't be hurried. "It seems to me," he continued in his flat New England twang, "that all you do is pick up a brick, put some mortar on it, and put it in the fireplace." The bricklayer turned around to survey the plump but dapper dude from the East.
    "Nothing personal meant," said Dad, with his most patronizing smile, "my good man."
    "Sure, that's all right," said the workman, but he was furious. "Dead easy, eh? Like to try it, Mister?"
    Dad, who had set his sights on just such an invitation, said he guessed not. Mother tugged at his sleeve and fidgeted. "The porch is right this way," her father repeated. "Here," the bricklayer said, handing Dad the trowel. "Try it."
    Dad grinned and took the trowel. He grabbed a brick, flipped it into position in his hand, slapped on the mortar with a rotary motion of the trowel, placed the brick, scraped off the excess mortar, reached for a second brick, flipped it, and was about to slap on more mortar when the workman reached out and took back his trowel.
    "That's enough, you old hod-carrier," he