“What was it?” Mrs. Meadows inquired.
“Nothing much,” answered Tickle-My-Toes, putting his finger in his mouth.
“I declare, I’m ashamed of you,” exclaimed Mrs. Meadows. “Here you are mighty near as old as I am, and yet trying to play boo-hoo baby.”
“I don’t think you ought to talk that way,” said Tickle-My-Toes. “I thread your needles for you every day, and I do everything you ask me.”
“I know what’s the matter with you,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “You want me to take you in my lap and rock you to sleep.”
“Oh! I don’t!” cried Tickle-My-Toes, blushing again. “I wanted to tell a story I heard, but I’ll go off somewhere and tell it to myself.”
“There wouldn’t be any fun in that,” suggested Buster John.
“No,” said Mrs. Meadows. “Tell the story right here, so we can enjoy it with you.”
“You’ll laugh,” protested Tickle-My-Toes.
“Not unless there’s something in the story to laugh at.”