“Cities aren’t so much,” said John.
Flip thought they were. He had lived in San Francisco years and years ago.
“But you can’t do interesting things there, like rowing and such,” said John.
“You certainly can,” argued Flip.
“And anyway,” said John, “it’s always foggy and cold, and things aren’t alive there like the trees and hills and things in your stories.”
“You are mistaken,” said Flip. “I remember perfectly well——”
“It’s a story; isn’t it, please?” said Martha Mary.
“Well, not exactly a story.”
“Please,” said Martha Mary, and rubbed her soft, pink cheek against Flip’s forehead. So what could Flip do but tell the story?—the story of the Things that are alive in the City.