“Now, can you remember about old Mother Quiverquake?” said Olly, resting his little sunburnt chin on Aunt Emma’s knee, and looking up to her with eager eyes.
“‘Suppose we have a story-telling game’”
“Well, I daresay I shall begin to remember about her presently; but suppose, children, we have a story-telling game. We’ll tell stories—you and Olly, father, mother, and everybody. That’s much fairer than that one person should do all the telling.”
“We couldn’t,” said Milly, shaking her head gravely, “we are only little children. Little children can’t make up stories.”
“Suppose little children try,” said mother. “I think Aunt Emma’s is an excellent plan. Now, father, you’ll have to tell one too.”
“Father’s lazy,” said Mr. Norton, coming out from behind his newspaper. “But, perhaps, if you all of you tell very exciting stories you may stir him up.”
“Oh, father!” cried Olly, who had a vivid remembrance of his father’s stories, though they only came very seldom, “tell us about the rat with three tails, and the dog that walked on its nose.”
“Oh dear, no!” said Mr. Norton, “those won’t do for such a grand story-telling as this. I must think of some story which is all long words and good children.”
“Don’t father,” said Milly, imploringly, “it’s ever so much nicer when they get into scrapes, you know, and tumble down, and all that.”