THE BOOK OF BETTY BARBER.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Miss Crimson Lake.
“‘I suppose I shall be stupid too when I grow up,” read Lucy, “so I mean to write down in this book the things I like, then when I am grown up, I shall know what my children will like.’”
“But who is writing it?” asked Miss Crimson Lake. “A child, of course, but is it a boy or girl?”
“Look if the book has a name,” said Major C.
“None outside,” said Lucy examining the cover.
“Then look inside,” said Miss Crimson Lake.
“Ah, yes, here it is,” said Lucy, “on the very first page, and there are two names. How I wish I had two!” and Lucy sighed a deep, deep sigh.
“Well, what does it say?” asked Miss Crimson Lake.
“Yes, what does it say?” said Major C.
“It says, ‘This is the book of Betty Barber,’” said Lucy, “‘Betty Barber,’ what a beautiful name?”
“Hullo, Lucy, where is your work?” called a loud voice, as a boy dressed in black and white came running down one of the paths through the wood towards the tree. “Don’t we all know that you are
‘The fair little girl who sat under a tree,
Sewing as long as her eyes could see.’”
“But you seem to forget that
‘I’ve smoothed my work and folded it right,
And said, “Dear work, good-night, good-night!”’
this time,” laughed Lucy.
“What have you got there?” asked the boy, and he snatched the book out of Lucy’s hands.
“What a rude fellow!” whispered Miss Crimson Lake, “who is he?”
“Only a fraction,” said Lucy. “Give me the book back, Thirteen-fourteenths.”
2
