TRUE STORIES OF DOLLS
“The bay of the ploshkin, of course. It lurks in the deep round hole that you see exactly in the middle of the bay. So you must row out there in a skiff, taking with you a pail of mortar.”
“What a funny thing to take,” giggled Dorothy each time.
“The only thing,” Eugenia announced severely. “And when the skiff is exactly in the centre of the bay you must fasten the prow to the top of a wave, with a pink shoe-string.”
“Who ever heard of a pink shoe-string?” demanded Dorothy gleefully.
“You have—now,” Eugenia told her. “Where was I? Oh, yes, tie the prow to the top of a wave with a pink shoe-string, and then you must wait and wait and wait and wait, till by and by the ploshkin will come up to drink.”
“I should think he could drink enough down where he was. Don’t you mean come up to breathe?” inquired Dorothy acutely.
“I mean come up to drink. The ploshkin has an ingrowing face and he drinks up, not down. Now shall I go on with the story?”
“Please,” begged Dorothy.