The well in the wood

by Bert Leston Taylor

“If I’m not doing it right you must tell me,” she said. “And do stop sobbing; it shakes your head so I can’t do a thing.”

“I can’t stop,” blubbered the Guinea-Pig. “If I don’t cry I have to sob.”

“Well, cry a little, then, for a change. You won’t shake so.”

“But I can’t cry,” wailed the unhappy Guinea-Pig. “My eyes are out. Oh! oh!”

He gave a little squeak, more of fright than of pain, for Buddie had grasped him so tightly that he couldn’t shake, and scarcely could breathe.

“There!” she exclaimed triumphantly, slipping back the eyes. “Now you’re all right, and I’ll never pick you up by the tail again, you dear, dear little thing!”

She stroked him affectionately, but the Guinea-Pig, instead of cheering up, wept like a baby. His brown eyes fairly streamed tears.

“Oh! oh!” he cried. “Everything’s upside down!”

“I know it, dearie,” said Buddie, soothingly. She was getting used to the topsy-turviness of the wood, and she was not the least surprised to hear the Guinea-Pig wail forth:

“You’re standing on your head! You’re standing on your head!”