“Oh, it isn’t anything of that sort,” said the Bear, hastily. “I’ve been this way ever since I moved, last May.”
“Sometimes when I’ve eaten a late supper I don’t go to sleep right away,” said the Donkey. “In such cases I begin counting two hundred sheep going through the bars, one by one, and by the time I get to a hundred and twenty-three—why, I’m snoring.”
“I’ve tried that,” said the Bear. “It doesn’t work.”
“Well, try counting the nuts on a tree, or the blueberries on a bush.”
“I have—over and over.”
“Perhaps you don’t count slowly enough. That makes a difference.”
“Not with me,” said the Bear, half-closing his eyes. “I’ve imagined a crow flying round—and round—and round,”—his voice grew drowsy;—“I’ve imagined a squirrel going round—and round—and round a tree,”—his voice grew drowsier and drowsier;—“I’ve counted both ways from a hundred; I’ve counted up to twenty-three hundred—multiplied by eighty-four—subtracted nine hundred and ninety-nine—divided by seven—added six hundred and thirty—put down eight and car-r-i-e-d three-e-e-e—”
The Bear’s voice died away in a whisper, and his head drooped.
“What was the answer?” the Donkey shouted in his ear.
“You needn’t holler so,” said the Bear, with a start. “I wasn’t asleep.”