“Well, once dere was a little girl, ’bout so big as me, and her mother telled her to go over the field and take some nice custard in a bowl to a poor sick woman in a little bit o’ cabin. So she put on her little hat an’ comed an’ comed an’ comed till she ’most come to de little cabin. Den she sat down under a bush an’ she look in de bowl, an’ de custard look yellow like gole, an’ smooth like silk, an’ den she took a holly-leaf an’ she ate de nice custard all up. An’ den she lie down an’ go sleep. Pretty soon dere comes big bumble-bee, buzz-buzz-buzz, an’ she wakes up an’ says, ‘Go ’way, bad bee.’ But de bee say, ‘No, no; I goin’ ter sting a bad chile doan’ mine ’er mudder.’”
The girls were noticing with much amusement that Elfie was unconsciously imitating the Southern accent Candace used.
“Den a lil’ chipmunk come an’ say, ‘Cha-cha-cha-cha, I goin’ bite her lil’ toes, ’cause she doan’ mine ’er mudder.’ Den a lil’ owl comes an’ says, ‘Who-a-who-a-who, I goin’ pull ’er har, ’cause she doan’ mine ’er mudder.’ Den dere comes a lil’ chink-bug, tick-a-tick-a-tick-a, an’ says, ‘I goin’ pinch ’er, ’cause she doan’ mine ’er mudder.’ Den dey all say, ‘Sting ’er, bite ’er, pull ’er, pinch ’er, ’cause she doan’ mine ’er mudder.’ So she cry an’ holler, an’ de poor sick woman crawls outer bed an’ sends ’em all off. Den she says, ‘You got somefin’ nice for me in dat blue bowl?—somefin’ you mudder send me, yellow as gole an’ smooth as silk? Gib it to me, ’cause I got nuffin’ to eat.’
“Dat was the worse of all, an’ de lil’ girl runs out de door an’ runs home an’ says, ‘Mudder, mudder, gib me all de supper I can have;’ an’ de mudder gibs her bread an’ milk an’ jam-tart, an’ she takes ’em an’ runs ’way, ’way off to de cabin, to gib ’em to de sick woman, an’ de bee, an’ de chipmunk, and de lil’ owl, and de chink-bug, dey all comed too, an’ dey didn’t sting ’er, nor bite ’er, nor pull ’er, nor pinch ’er, ’cause she was sorry she was bad an’ didn’t mine ’er mudder.
“I can tell you better stories when I know how to read,” said Elfie, modestly, as she received their thanks for the one she had just told in a highly dramatic manner. “I have a beautiful big book of stories called The Raving Nights, but Auntie Abbott wont let me have the stories read to me, because I heard her tell Miss Blake I was too—too magical now.”
“O, yes; dat was it.”
“Well,” said Lily, who had seen the big storybook, “‘magical’ isn’t a bad word for the Arabian Nights.”
“And ‘Raving’ is as forcible as the real title,” added Edna, who seemed to have recovered her temper.