“Oh yes, it grew up in a minute. And the Lion begged pardon, and said it wouldn’t nubble off little boys’ heads—not never no more!” Bruno looked much pleased at this change of events. “Now that are a _really_ nice story!” he said. “_Aren’t_ it a nice story, Mister Sir?” “Very,” I said. “I would like to hear another story about that Boy.” “So would _I_,” said Bruno, stroking Sylvie’s cheek again. “_Please_ tell about Bruno’s Picnic; and don’t talk about _nubbly_ Lions!” “I won’t, if it frightens you,” said Sylvie. “_Flightens_ me!” Bruno exclaimed indignantly. “It isn’t _that_! It’s ’cause ‘nubbly’ ’s such a grumbly word to say—when one person’s got her head on another person’s shoulder. When she talks like that,” he explained to me, “the talking goes down bofe sides of my face—all the way to my chin—and it _doos_ tickle so! It’s enough to make a beard grow, that it is!” He said this with great severity, but it was evidently meant for a joke: so Sylvie laughed—a delicious musical little laugh, and laid her soft cheek on the top of her brother’s curly head, as if it were a pillow, while she went on with the story. “So this Boy——” “But it wasn’t _me_, oo know!” Bruno interrupted. “And oo needn’t try to look as if it was, Mister Sir!” I represented, respectfully, that I was trying to look as if it wasn’t. “—he was a middling good Boy——” “He were a _welly_ good Boy!” Bruno corrected her. “And he never did nothing he wasn’t told to do——” “_That_ doesn’t make a good Boy!” Sylvie said contemptuously. “That _do_ make a good Boy!” Bruno insisted. Sylvie gave up the point. “Well, he was a _very_ good Boy, and he always kept his promises, and he had a big cupboard——” “—for to keep all his promises in!” cried Bruno. “If he kept _all_ his promises,” Sylvie said, with a mischievous look in her eyes, “he wasn’t like _some_ Boys I know of!” “He had to put _salt_ with them, a-course,” Bruno said gravely: “oo ca’n’t keep promises when there isn’t any salt. And he kept his birthday on the second shelf.” “How long did he keep his birthday?” I asked. “I never can keep _mine_ more than twenty-four hours.” “Why, a birthday _stays_ that long by itself!” cried Bruno. “Oo doosn’t know how to keep birthdays! This Boy kept _his_ a whole year!” “And then the next birthday would begin,” said Sylvie. “So it would be his birthday _always_.” “So it were,” said Bruno. “Doos _oo_ have treats on _oor_ birthday, Mister Sir?” “Sometimes,” I said. “When oo’re _good_, I suppose?” “Why, it _is_ a sort of treat, being good, isn’t it?” I said. “A sort of _treat_!” Bruno repeated. “It’s a sort of _punishment_, _I_ think!” “Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie interrupted, almost sadly. “How _can_ you?” “Well, but it _is_,” Bruno persisted. “Why, look here, Mister Sir! _This_ is being good!” And he sat bolt upright, and put on an absurdly solemn face. “First oo must sit up as straight as pokers——” “—as _a_ poker,” Sylvie corrected him.