"Not I," said Max, who was plucking up courage, "not if I know it!—Of course you are to tell a story," he continued aloud: "you promised, and you ought to be a Month of your word. Thekla, put away that broom. Now we're all ready, sir."
March scowled, but made no resistance. As Max had said, he was a Month of his word; and he began in a queer voice, which was now loud and then soft, now dying away to a murmur and then bellowing out again in a way that made you jump.
"Once upon a time, as I was driving across a prairie, I saw a house."
"I don't know what a prairie is," said Thekla, gently.
"I don't suppose you do," growled March: "that's one of the things you don't know, and there are a good many more of 'em. A prairie's a big field without any fences, and several thousand miles square. People live there,—some people do: I spend a good deal of time
