“I have a reason,” said Tiny, nodding her head wisely. “You needn’t think you know all of everything, Johnny Leslie!”
“I never said I did!” retorted Johnny, warmly; then he looked at Tiny, and began to laugh, she was so little, and was trying so hard to look wise and elderly.
“You may laugh if you like,” she said, serenely, “I don’t mind. But if you don’t know what you are going to teach him, perhaps you know what you’re not. Are you going to teach him to sing?”
Johnny accepted Tiny’s gracious permission, and laughed a good deal, but at last he answered,—
“No, Tiny, I’m not going to teach him to sing. I am quite sure about that. Mamma says I can sing straight ahead first rate, but she never knew me to turn a tune yet. I wish I could sing the way you do,” he added, regretfully, “I’m so full of sing sometimes that I don’t know what to do, but I can’t make it come out.”
They were sitting on the back porch, pasting their scrap-books, and Mrs. Leslie was sewing at the window.
“Never mind, Johnny,” she said, consolingly, “you’ll not ‘die with all your music in you’ while you do so much shouting.”
“Very well, then,” said Tiny, with a look of great satisfaction, “when Jim comes, I shall tell him that if he will dig my garden for me, I will teach him to sing.”
Mrs. Leslie expected to hear Johnny first laugh, and then try to dissuade Tiny from carrying out her plan, but to her surprise, he did neither. He said,—