“You are mistaken, for all you need do is to put in writing exactly what you have just told me.”
“You write then just as you talk?” asked the boy, incredulously.
“Yes, provided that speech is corrected, if necessary, on reflection, since writing gives time for it, whereas talking does not.”
“In that case, I should soon have my five lines on paper. I should write: ‘Cotton is a flock that is found in the bolls of a shrub called the cotton plant. With this flock they make thread; and with this thread, cloth. When the cloth is worn out, machines tear it into little pieces, and mill-stones grind it with water to make it into a pulp. This pulp is stretched in thin layers which are pressed and dried. Then it is paper.’ There! Is that right, Uncle?”
“As well as one could wish from one of your age,” his uncle assured him.
“But that could not be put into a book.”
“And why not? I promise you that shall be in a book some day. It has been said to me that our talks might be useful to many other little boys as desirous to learn as you, and I propose to collect them in all their simplicity and make a book of them.”
“A book where I could read at leisure the stories that you tell us? Oh, how pleased I am, Uncle, and how I love you! You won’t put my ignorant questions in that book?”
“I shall put them all in. You know next to nothing now, my dear child, but you ardently desire to learn. That is a fine quality, and a very becoming one.”
“Are you at least sure that the little boys who read this book will not laugh at me?”