“Can’t David tell it?” asked Kenneth.
“This is no time of night for stories,” said David, taking a drink of milk. “’Specially Injun stories.”
“Oh, is it an Indian story?” asked both children in delight.
“Hadn’t you better wait till morning?” said Grandmother, going to the door. “The trouble with you children is, that you slept all the afternoon.”
“Let us sit up fifteen minutes more, please, Grandma!” said Eunice, and Grandmother was too sleepy to refuse.
“Well,” began David, in a loud voice, “one reason Aunt Eunice likes Chucklehead, is that he’s the good-for-nothingest horse on the farm.”
“That’s not so!” called Grandmother from the other side of the door, and David laughed.
“No,” he continued, as her footsteps died away, “the real reason she likes Chucklehead, is that he’s the son of Silver Bell, the finest horse ever raised in this State.”
“Was she pretty?” Eunice asked.
“Pretty? She was a regular Christmas card! and as full of airs as any mistress of the White House. Why, her feet were so little you’d scarcely know she had ’em, and her mane was all crinkly and wavy like a lady’s hair.”