And when he woke she was telling the children a story. And what story did she tell them? One story she told them, which begins every Christmas Eve, and yet never ends at all for ever and ever; and, as she went on, the children took their thumbs out of their mouths and listened quite seriously; but not sadly at all; for she never told them anything sad; and Tom listened too, and never grew tired of listening. And he listened so long that he fell fast asleep again, and, when he woke, the lady was nursing him still. "Don't go away," said little Tom. "This is so nice. I never had any one to cuddle me before." "Don't go away," said all the children; "you have not sung us one song." "Well, I have time for only one. So what shall it be?" "The doll you lost! The doll you lost!" cried all the babies at once. So the strange fairy sang:-- _I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day: And I cried for her more than a week, dears. But I never could find where she lay. I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day: Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled: Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world._ What a silly song for a fairy to sing! And what silly water-babies to be quite delighted at it! Well, but you see they have not the advantage of Aunt Agitate's Arguments in the sea-land down below. "Now," said the fairy to Tom, "will you be a good boy for my sake, and torment no more sea-beasts till I come back?" "And you will cuddle me again?" said poor little Tom. "Of course I will, you little duck. I should like to take you with me and cuddle you all the way, only I must not;" and away she went. So Tom really tried to be a good boy, and tormented no sea-beasts after that as long as he lived; and he is quite alive, I assure you, still. Oh, how good little boys ought to be who have kind pussy mammas to cuddle them and tell them stories; and how afraid they ought to be of growing naughty, and bringing tears into their mammas' pretty eyes! [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI