“Pretend they weren’t Owls!” Bruno pleaded, stroking her cheek with his fat little hand. “I don’t like Owls. Owls have such great big eyes. Pretend they were Chickens!” “Are you afraid of their great big eyes, Bruno?” I said. “Aren’t _’fraid_ of nothing,” Bruno answered in as careless a tone as he could manage: “they’re ugly with their great big eyes. I think if they cried, the tears would be as big—oh, as big as the moon!” And he laughed merrily. “Doos Owls cry ever, Mister Sir?” “Owls cry never,” I said gravely, trying to copy Bruno’s way of speaking: “they’ve got nothing to be sorry for, you know.” “Oh, but they have!” Bruno exclaimed. “They’re ever so sorry, ’cause they killed the poor little Mouses!” “But they’re not sorry when they’re _hungry_, I suppose?” “Oo don’t know nothing about Owls!” Bruno scornfully remarked. “When they’re hungry, they’re very, _very_ sorry they killed the little Mouses, ’cause if they _hadn’t_ killed them there’d be sumfin for supper, oo know!” Bruno was evidently getting into a dangerously inventive state of mind, so Sylvie broke in with “Now I’m going on with the story. So the Owls—the Chickens, I mean—were looking to see if they could find a nice fat Mouse for their supper——” “Pretend it was a nice ’abbit!” said Bruno. “But it _wasn’t_ a nice habit, to kill Mouses,” Sylvie argued. “I can’t pretend _that_!” “I didn’t say ‘_habit_,’ oo silly fellow!” Bruno replied with a merry twinkle in his eye. “’_abbits_—that runs about in the fields!” “Rabbit? Well it can be a Rabbit, if you like. But you mustn’t alter my story so much, Bruno. A Chicken _couldn’t_ eat a Rabbit!” “But it might have wished to see if it could try to eat it.” “Well, it wished to see if it could try—oh, really, Bruno, that’s nonsense! I shall go back to the Owls.” “Well then, pretend they hadn’t great eyes!” “And they saw a little Boy,” Sylvie went on, disdaining to make any further corrections. “And he asked them to tell him a story. And the Owls hooted and flew away——” (“Oo shouldn’t say ‘_flewed_;’ oo should say ‘_flied_,’” Bruno whispered. But Sylvie wouldn’t hear.) “And he met a Lion. And he asked the Lion to tell him a story. And the Lion said ‘yes,’ it would. And, while the Lion was telling him the story, it nibbled some of his head off——” “Don’t say ‘nibbled’!” Bruno entreated. “Only little things nibble—little thin sharp things, with edges——” “Well then, it ‘_nubbled_,’” said Sylvie. “And when it had nubbled _all_ his head off, he went away, and he never said ‘thank you’!” “That were very rude,” said Bruno. “If he couldn’t speak, he might have nodded—no, he couldn’t nod. Well, he might have shaked _hands_ with the Lion!” “Oh, I’d forgotten that part!” said Sylvie. “He _did_ shake hands with it. He came back again, you know, and he thanked the Lion very much, for telling him the story.” “Then his head had growed up again?” said Bruno.