Philip raised himself to a sitting posture and looked his uncle straight in the eye.
"Unker Wichard," he said, quietly, "did you think that was a story?"
"I had thought so," acknowledged Mr. De Jarnette. "I see my mistake now." Then, with a momentary flash of spirit, he enquired, "What's wrong with that story, any way?"
"It don't begin right. You have to say, 'Once on a time—'"
"Oh, you do? Well, if you know my story better than I do, suppose you tell it."
"I can't," said Philip. "I'd rather tell you when you get it wrong," thus unconsciously enunciating a principle of criticism as old as time. If all the critics had to pass a novitiate as image-makers before they were admitted to the bar as image-breakers, there is danger that the race would become extinct. But this critic was not through.
"And then—Unker Wichard, do you think a dog that don't say anything in a story 'mounts to much?"
"But, Philip, dogs don't talk, you know."
"Wolfs talk." Philip was reasoning from analogy. "And so do bears. Don't you 'member the old papa bear saying, 'Who's been sitting in my chair?' and the little baby bear saying, 'Who's been sitting in my chair?'" suiting his tone to their respective ages and sizes. "And don't you 'member 'bout Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit?"
"But they were not dogs," weakly suggested the story-teller, conscious that he was begging the question.