"What makes you cry, mamma?"
"Because you are so bad, darling," she replied, taking him into her arms.
"I didn't know I was bad."
"But you are. You seem to make everybody miserable."
"What's miserable?"
"Unhappy."
"What's unhappy?"
"Go, sit down over there."
He climbed up on a trunk, twisted himself around, tore his clothes, got down, killed a fly on the window pane, picked up a feather which he found in a corner, threw it up and blew his breath upon it, turned over a work-basket, climbed upon the bed where his mother had lain down, put his hands on her face, gazed with mischievous tenderness into her eyes, and said:
"I love you."