"Never, my darling," said the long-suffering old lady patiently; "go on."
Chris obeyed; now, however, reading in a listless fashion, as if he had no further energy left.
He continued without a breath, until he reached the following: "Ah, but now it has got in the oil. Oh, fly, fly, why do you go to the oil?"
This was too good an opportunity to be lost.
"Granny," he said idly, and yawning as he spoke, "I want to ask you something."
"Yes, my Chris," she said inquiringly.
"Why did the fly go to the oil?" he asked with feigned interest.
"My darling, how can I possibly tell you?" she exclaimed. "See, you are slipping right off my knee. You can't read properly so."
Chris scrambled back to his former position, and then continued reading in a desultory fashion.
"'Oil is bad for a fly. So, now I put you out of the oil, and now I say you are to get dry. Ah! but now the fly is on the pot of jam, and it is on the jar and in the jam. The red jam, the new jam, the big jar of jam.'"