At this Sara rose in the bed and looked at me very severely.
"Did he say his palayers eberly day?" she asked.
"No, not prayers, darling. Bunnies don't say prayers; children say prayers."
"Naughty bunnies!" said Sara with great severity.
Dreading a religious discussion, which Sara loves, I proposed changing the story to "The Three Bears." She acquiesced with jumps of joy up and down, just where one would not choose to be jumped upon, and said, "Ve felee belairs."
Here I fared no better: my version of the story was so hopelessly wrong, and I received such crushing correction at the hands of Sara, that I was glad to relinquish my office of story-teller and suggested that she should tell a story instead.
This was evidently what she had wanted to do all along, for she began at once. She tells a story very much as she says her prayers, at the same terrific pace certainly. First of all she swallowed and took a deep breath, then she began, "Vunce there was a vitty blush—and not a bad nasty blush—it said its palayers ebery morning an nannie said good girly an then the blush vent to sleep in a vitty bed with Yaya."
"Go slower, darling," I said. "Aunt Woggles can't quite understand."
"Yan—ven—Yaya—voke up ve vitty—belush said, 'Good-morning,' yan Yaya said, 'Good-morning,' yan it was a nice bunny yan not a nasty bunny any more."
Here Sara's thoughts were distracted, and the story ended abruptly for want of breath, or possibly of story. She refused to go on, and when pressed said with great decision, "Dey's all dead."