“Well, Bruin, how do you like jam?” asked Toto.
“Very much, very much indeed!” replied the bear. “Something like honey, isn’t it, only entirely different? What kind of creatures make it? Butterflies?”
“Lady makes it herself, stupid!” muttered the woodchuck, who was out of temper, having just tried to get a spoonful out of turn, and failed. “Didn’t you hear her say so? Butterflies never make anything except butter.”
The little squirrel sat nibbling his gingerbread in a state of great satisfaction. “Who’s to tell the story next time?” he asked presently.
“Parrot,” answered the raccoon, with his mouth full of jam. “Parrot promised ever so long ago to tell us a story about Africa. Didn’t you, Polly?”
The parrot drew herself up with an air of offended dignity. “The gentlemen of my acquaintance, Mr. Coon,” she said, “call me Miss Mary. I am ‘Polly’ to a few intimates only.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the raccoon. “I beg your pardon, Miss Mary. No offence, I trust?”
Miss Mary unbent a little, and condescended to explain. “My real name,” she said, “is Chamchamchamchamkickeryboo; but, not understanding the subtleties of our African languages, I do not expect you to pronounce that. ‘Miss Mary’ will do very well; though,” she added, “I have been called Princess in happier days.”
“When was that?” inquired Toto. “Tell us about it, Miss Mary.”
“No, no!” interrupted the bear. “No more stories to-night. It is too late. We must be getting home, or the owls will be after us.”