Cheaper by the Dozen

is such that there is waste motion both after transport loaded and transport empty," Fred lisped. "The work plane of the operator is at a fatiguing level and…"

    Sometimes we made believe we were on an auditorium platform at an engineering meeting, at which Dad was to speak. Anne played the chairman who was introducing him.
    "Our next speaker," she said, "is Frank Bunker Gilbreth. Wait a minute now. Please keep your seats. Don't be frightened. He's promised, this time, to limit himself to two hours, and not to mention the 'One Best Way to Do Work' more than twice in the same sentence."
    Frank, with pillows in front again, walked to the edge of the platform, adjusted a pince-nez which hung from a black ribbon around his neck, smirked, reached under his coat, and pulled out a manuscript seven inches thick.
    "For the purpose of convenience," he began pompously, "I have divided my talk tonight into thirty main headings and one hundred and seventeen sub-headings. I will commence with the first main heading..."
    At this point, the other children, who were seated as if they were the engineers in Dad's audience, nudged each other, arose, and tiptoed out of the room. Frank droned on, speaking to an empty hall.
    When Frank finally sat down, the audience returned, and the chairman introduced Mother, played again by Ernestine.
    "Our next guest is Dr. Lillian Moller Gilbreth. She's not going to make a speech, but she will be glad to answer any questions."
    Ernestine swept forward in a wide-brimmed hat and floor-length skirt. She was carrying a suitcase-sized pocketbook, from which protruded a pair of knitting needles, some mending, crochet hook, baby's bottle, and copy of the Scientific American.
    She smiled for a full minute, nodding to friends in the audience. "Hello, Grace, I like your new hat. Why, Jennie, you've bobbed your hair. Hello, Charlotte, so glad you could be here."
    Dressed in a collection of Mother's best hats, Martha, Frank, Bill and Lill started jumping up with questions.
    "Tell us, Mrs. Gilbreth, did you really want such a large family, and if so why?"
    "Any other questions?" asked Ernestine.
    "Who really wears the pants in your household, Mrs. Gilbreth? You or your husband?"
    "Any other questions?" asked Ernestine.
    "One thing more, Mrs. Gilbreth. Do Bolivians really come cheaper by the dozen?"
    After the skits, Dad sometimes would put on a one-man minstrel show for us, in which he played the parts of both the Messrs. Jones and Bones. We knew the routine by heart, but we always enjoyed it, and so did Dad.
    With his lower lip protruding and his hands hanging down to his knees, he shuffled up and down the parlor floor.
    "Does you know how you gets de water in de watermelon?"
    "I don't know, how does you get the water in the watermelon?"
    "Why you plants dem in de spring." Dad slapped his knee, folded his arms in front of his face, and rolled his head to the left and right in spasms of mirth. "Yak. Yak."
    "And does you know Isabelle?"
    "Isabelle?"
    "Yeah, Isabelle necessary on a bicycle."
    "And does you know the difference between a pretty girl and an apple? Well, one you squeeze to git cider, and the odder you git 'sider to squeeze. Yak. Yak."
    When the show was over, Dad looked at his watch.
    "It's way past your bedtime," he complained. "Doesn't anybody pay any attention to the rules I make? You older children should have been in bed an hour ago, and you little fellows three hours ago."
    He took Mother by the arm.
    "My throat is as hoarse as a frog's from all that reciting," he said. "The only thing that will soothe it is a nice, sweet, cool, chocolate ice cream soda. With whipped cream. Ummm." He rubbed his stomach. "Go to bed, children. Come on, Boss. I'll go get the car and you and I will go down to the drug store. I couldn't sleep a wink with this hoarse throat."
    "Take us, Daddy?" we shouted. "You wouldn't go without us? Our throats are hoarse as frogs' too. We wouldn't sleep a wink either."
    "See?" Dad asked. "When it comes to sodas, you're right on the job, up and ready to go. But when it comes to going to bed, you're slow as molasses!"
    He turned to Mother. "What do you say, Boss?"
    Mother protruded her lower lip, sagged her shoulders and let her hands hang down to her knees.
    "Did you say mo' 'lasses, Mr. Bones?" she squeaked in a querulous falsetto. "Mo' 'lasses? Why, Honey, I ain't had no 'lasses. Git yo' coats on, chillen. Yak. Yak."
    "Thirteen sodas at fifteen cents apiece," Dad muttered. "I can