little boy. She went up-stairs and said, 'You mustn't go in the yard.' But he wented, and fell into the pump, and was drowned dead."
"Is that all?" asked Franz, as Rob paused out of breath with this startling beginning.
"No, there is another piece of it," and Rob knit his downy eyebrows in the effort to evolve another inspiration.
"What did the lady do when he fell into the pump?" asked his mother, to help him on.
"Oh, she pumped him up, and wrapped him in a newspaper, and put him on a shelf to dry for seed."
A general explosion of laughter greeted this surprising conclusion, and Mrs. Jo patted the curly head, as she said, solemnly,—
"My son, you inherit your mother's gift of storytelling. Go where glory waits thee."
"Now I can stay, can't I? Wasn't it a good story?" cried Rob, in high feather at his superb success.
"You can stay till you have eaten these twelve popcorns," said his mother, expecting to see them vanish at one mouthful.
But Rob was a shrewd little man, and got the better of her by eating them one by one very slowly, and enjoying every minute with all his might.
"Hadn't you better tell the other story, while you wait for him?" said Demi, anxious that no time should be lost.
"I really have nothing but a little tale about a wood-box," said Mrs. Jo, seeing that Rob had still seven corns to eat.
"Is there a boy in it?"
