“‘Oh, no,’ the little girl replied; ‘the house is too large. I should be afraid to stay here alone.’
“‘I am sorry,’ said the Thunder. ‘Come and see me get in my carriage.’
“They went to the door. The whirlwinds from the south and the winds from the west had drawn the clouds to the steps, and into these the Thunder climbed.
“‘Good-by,’ he cried to the little girl. ‘Stay where you are until we are out of sight.’
“There was a flash of light, a snapping sound, a rattling crash, and the Thunder, with the clouds for his carriage and the winds for his horses, went roaming and rumbling through the sky, over the hills and valleys.”
Mr. Thimblefinger paused and looked at the children. They, expecting him to go on, said nothing.
“How did you like my story?” he asked.
“Is it a story?” inquired Buster John.
“Well, call it a tale,” said Mr. Thimblefinger.
“Hit’s too high up in de elements for ter suit me,” said Drusilla, candidly.