"No. Do please tell us about it."
And so I asked them, round the room. And by that time all eyes were fixed upon me. Then I said:
"You see I cannot tell you all these stories to-night. But would you all like one of some sort?"
A chorus of I should filled the room.
"What shall it be about, then?"
"A wicked fairy."
"No; that's stupid. I'm tired of wicked fairies," said a scornful little girl.
"A good giant, then," said a priggish imp, with a face as round as the late plum-pudding.
"I am afraid I could not tell you a story about a good giant; for unfortunately all the good giants I ever heard of were very stupid; so stupid that a story would not make itself about them; so stupid, indeed, that they were always made game of by creatures not half so big or half so good; and I don't like such stories. Shall I tell you about the wicked giant that grew little children in his garden instead of radishes, and then carried them about in his waistcoat pocket, and ate one as often as he remembered he had got some?"
"Yes, yes; please do."