“Do you 'spose,” Bert was saying sleepily, “that God 'ud give me a horn 'stead of a harp when I get to heaven, if I ask him to?”
“I know He will, Bert. Take off your other shoe.”
“Why didn't He give Chick something to say?”
“He did, but Chick's throat won't let the words come through. Step out of your clothes now, hurry up, Buddikin!”
But Bert's feet were firmly planted, and his sleepy eyes fixed in philosophic musings:
“If He had all kinds of throats I don't see why He didn't give Chick a good one.”
This required elucidation, and Miss Lady attempted to make the matter clear while extricating the small boy from his clothes.
“Ain't you going to tell me a story?”
“Not to-night, Bert. I'm so tired; all the stories have run out.”
Bert crawled into his bed silently, and lay watching the shadows in the big tree outside.