“Why, you see, she carried the little calf upstairs every day—every day of its life. Of course it was growing all the time, so that before she knew it, the calf had become a big cow, and the little girl was carrying the cow upstairs as easily as you please. Then the Prince came along and married her.”
“That sounds like one of Aunt Clare’s stories,” said Rose.
“What did he want to marry her for?” asked Kenneth. “Princes’ wives don’t need to carry cows, do they?”
“Well, I forget the rest of the story,” said Papa. “But there was a reason; a very good reason indeed, if I could only remember it. There always is a reason for things in fairy stories, isn’t there, Rosie?”
“Yes, indeed!” said Rose. But Kenneth sniffed.
Papa seized the big log in both arms as easily as the Princess did the cow, carried it in and threw it on the fire, which spouted up with a burst of sparks, like a fiery fountain. The bark began to crackle deliciously. Rose and Kenneth cuddled down on their cushions, one on each side of the fire, and watched the little tongues of flame lick the old log greedily. They loved the fire. Usually it made somebody think of a story.
Suddenly Rose cried out “Oh!” so loudly that even Kenneth jumped. Rose was pointing into the fire, and her forehead was puckered with distress.
“Why, what is it, Rose?” asked her mother.
“Oh, oh!” cried Rose again. “Oh, the poor little ants! Do look!”
Sure enough! the old log must have been an ants’ house. The poor little things were creeping out of the holes in it and scurrying wildly about in every direction, seeking a way of escape from their dwelling, which was growing hotter and hotter every minute.