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But Pater said “Ulp!”—no more.

“Now, dear,” put in Mater quickly. “We must be patient. You know all children go through larval stages.”

“When I was a polyp ...” Pater began rustily. He coughed out an accidentally inhaled crustacean, and started over: “No spawn of mine....” Trailing off, he only glared, then roared abruptly, “SPRAT!”

“I won’t!” said Junior reflexively and backpaddled into the coral shadows of the reef.

“That wallop,” seethed Pater, “wants a good polyping. I mean....” He glowered suspiciously at Mater and the neighbors.

“Dear,” soothed Mater, “didn’t you notice?”

“Of course, I.... Notice what?”

“What Junior was doing ... carrying a stone. I don’t suppose he understands why, just yet, but....”

“A stone? Ah, uh, to be sure, a stone. Why, my dear, do you realize what this means?”

Pater was once more occupied with improving Mater’s mind. It was a long job, without foreseeable end—especially since he and his helpmeet were both firmly rooted for life to the same tastefully decorated homesite (garnished by Pater himself with colored pebbles, shells, urchins and bits of coral in the rather rococo style which had prevailed during Pater’s courting days as a free-swimming polyp).