BAA, BAA, BLACK SHEEP.
Baa Baa, Black Sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes Sir, yes Sir, three bags full.
One for the Master, one for the Dame—
None for the Little Boy that cries down the lane.
THE FIRST BAG.
"When I was in my father's house, I was in a better place."
THEY were putting Punch to bed—the ayah and the hamal and Meeta the big Surti boy with the red and gold turban. Judy, already tucked inside her mosquito-curtains, was nearly asleep. Punch had been allowed to stay up for dinner. Many privileges had been accorded to Punch within the last ten days, and a greater kindness from the people of his world had encompassed his ways and works, which were mostly obstreperous. He sat on the edge of his bed and swung his bare legs defiantly.
"Punch-baba going to bye-lo?" said the ayah suggestively.
"No," said Punch. "Punch-baba wants the story about the Ranee that was turned into a tiger. Meeta must tell it, and the hamal shall hide behind the door and make tiger-noises at the proper time."
"But Judy-baba will wake up," said the ayah.
"Judy-baba is waking," piped a small voice from the mosquito-curtains. "There was a Ranee that lived at Delhi. Go on, Meeta," and she fell fast asleep again while Meeta began the story.
Never had Punch secured the telling of that tale with so little opposition. He reflected for a long time. The hamal made the tiger-noises in twenty different keys.
