“And they saw a little Boy,” Sylvie went on, disdaining to make any further corrections. “And he asked them to tell him a story. And the Owls hooted and flew away——” (“Oo shouldn’t say ‘flewed;’ oo should say ‘flied,’” Bruno whispered. But Sylvie wouldn’t hear.) “And he met a Lion. And he asked the Lion to tell him a story. And the Lion said ‘yes,’ it would. And, while the Lion was telling him the story, it nibbled some of his head off——”
“Don’t say ‘nibbled’!” Bruno entreated. “Only little things nibble—little thin sharp things, with edges——”
“Well then, it ‘nubbled,’” said Sylvie. “And when it had nubbled all his head off, he went away, and he never said ‘thank you’!”
“That were very rude,” said Bruno. “If he couldn’t speak, he might have nodded—no, he couldn’t nod. Well, he might have shaked hands with the Lion!”
“Oh, I’d forgotten that part!” said Sylvie. “He did shake hands with it. He came back again, you know, and he thanked the Lion very much, for telling him the story.”
“Then his head had growed up again?” said Bruno.
“Oh yes, it grew up in a minute. And the Lion begged pardon, and said it wouldn’t nubble off little boys’ heads—not never no more!”
Bruno looked much pleased at this change of events. “Now that are a really nice story!” he said. “Aren’t it a nice story, Mister Sir?”
“Very,” I said. “I would like to hear another story about that Boy.”
“So would I,” said Bruno, stroking Sylvie’s cheek again. “Please tell about Bruno’s Picnic; and don’t talk about nubbly Lions!”