"Well, don't think," was the imperious command. "Talk."
"Once upon a time," Martin began, "there was a little boy who had a beautiful home."
"That's nice." Nance sighed, as she nestled her head back comfortably against the strong arm which was supporting her.
"And the boy," Martin continued, "had a father and a mother who loved him very much. All day long he played in the sunshine, amongst the flowers, birds, and butterflies. He had a big dog, too, and they were always so happy together. Then the boy grew to be a man, and he had a garden all his own. He had many trees and beautiful flowers to look after, and he loved them very much, especially the little baby flowers. These came to him, and he would talk to them, and tell them what to do to make them grow strong and beautiful."
"What! could the flowers talk?" Nance asked in amazement. "Wasn't it funny?"
"Yes, those flowers could talk, and understood everything the gardener told them."
"What is a gardener?"
"Oh, the man who was once a little boy."
"I see." Sleepily.
"Well, after a while the gardener hurt one of his flowers."