"Yes," he said, "their faces do seem to change. But I think they always look kind."
"They do to us," I said confidently, "but sometimes they are quite fierce. I don't think they looked at us the way they do now the first time they saw us. And one day one of the men in the shop shoved something against one of them and his face frowned—I'm sure it did."
"I wonder if he'd frown if I got up on his back," said Haddie.
"Oh, do leave off about climbing on their backs," I said. "It wouldn't be at all comfortable—they're so broad, you couldn't sit cross-legs, and they'd be as slippery as anything. It's much nicer to make up stories about them coming alive in the night, or turning into black princes and saying magic words to make the doors open like in the Arabian Nights."
"Well, tell me stories of all they do then," said Haddie condescendingly.
"I will if you'll let me think for a minute," I said. "I wish Aunty Etta was here—she does know such lovely stories."
"I like yours quite as well," said Haddie encouragingly, "I don't remember Aunty Etta's; it's such a long time since I saw her. You saw her last year, you know, but I didn't."
"She told me one about a china parrot, a most beautiful green and gold parrot, that was really a fairy," I said. "I think I could turn it into a lion story, if I thought about it."
"No," said Haddie, "you can tell the parrot one another time. I'd rather hear one of your own stories, new, about the lions. I know you've got some in your head. Begin, do—I'll help you if you can't get on."
But my story that afternoon was not to be heard. Just as I was beginning with, "Well, then, there was once an old witch who lived in a very lonely hut in the middle of a great forest," there came voices behind us, and in another moment we heard mamma saying,