“I’ll see how I feel after dinner,” said Mr. Burton. “But what are you going to do for me between now and then, to make me feel better?”
“We’ll tell you storiezh,” said Toddie. “Dem’s what sick folks alwayzh likesh.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Burton. “Begin right away.”
“Aw wight,” said Toddie. “Do you wantsh a sad story or a d’zolly one?”
“Anything. Men with the toothache can stand nearly anything. Don’t draw on your imagination too hard.”
“Don’t never draw on no madzinasuns,” said Toddie; “I only draws on slatesh.”
“Never mind. Give us the story.”
“Well,” said Toddie, seating himself in a little rocking-chair, and fixing his eyes on the ceiling, “guesh I’ll tell about AbrahammynIsaac. Onesh de Lord told a man named Abraham to go up the mountain an’ chop his little boy’s froat open an’ burn him up on a naltar. So Abraham started to go do it. An’ he made his little boy Isaac, dat he was going to chop and burn up, carry de kindlin’ wood he was goin’ to set him a-fire wif. An’ I want to know if you fink dat wazh very nysh of him?”
“Well, no.”
“Tell you what,” said Budge, “you don’t ever catch me carryin’ sticks up the mountain, even if my papa wants me to.”