"And the stork,—what did he say?" put in William.
"The stork look very cross, poking out by the chimney his long neck, and he said, 'Only for good childrens will the frog answer your questions.' Then the stork flap his large wings against the chimney and fly up out of sight. And while the little princess look up after him she see the sky through the chimney-top——"
"And the house was all gone, wasn't it?"
"The little house was all gone, and in her old blue dress the princess was on the hillside sitting, and her geese were making a fine noise around her."
"And next day," prompted William, when Elizabeth stopped to take a breath, then settled back comfortably once more to listen as she went on.
William was always quiet and contented in Elizabeth's company. There was no end to the tales she could tell, all about elves and gnomes and strange, wise animals, and good and bad children who played among them. Her stories came from Elizabeth's childhood in a country of simple-hearted, fanciful people, the kindly soul of old Germany, with its love of music and children and of tranquil happiness;—that Germany which is bound up with the Kaiser and his Junkers in their mad and pitiless thirst for conquest only by the blind obedience that comes from their simplicity.
"And where did it all happen, Elizabeth?" William wanted to know when at last the story had come to a satisfactory end and the frog and the princess had reached an understanding.
"Oh, that happen far away from here, William. Over where I come from, in my old country," Elizabeth explained, untangling William's legs from her apron.
"Could I go over there and see it, do you think?" asked the little boy, smothering a yawn as he put the question.