"Do you 'spose," Bert was saying sleepily, "that God 'ud give me a
horn 'stead of a harp when I get to heaven, if I ask him to?"
"I know He will, Bert. Take off your other shoe."
"Why didn't He give Chick something to say?"
"He did, but Chick's throat won't let the words come through. Step out
of your clothes now, hurry up, Buddikin!"
But Bert's feet were firmly planted, and his sleepy eyes fixed in
philosophic musings:
"If He had all kinds of throats I don't see why He didn't give Chick a
good one."
This required elucidation, and Miss Lady attempted to make the matter
clear while extricating the small boy from his clothes.
"Ain't you going to tell me a story?"
"Not to-night, Bert. I'm so tired; all the stories have run out."
Bert crawled into his bed silently, and lay watching the shadows in
the big tree outside.
"I wish Cousin Don was here," he sighed. "He never does run out of
stories. When is he coming back?"
"I don't know, dear. Shut your eyes now, and go to sleep."
He shut his eyes obediently, but continued the conversation drowsily,
"He knows all about whales and tigers, and big ships and elephants.
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