Yousaythatfatherwritesalotofbooks, butwhathewritesIdon’tunderstand.
Hewasreadingtoyoualltheevening, butcouldyoureallymakeoutwhathemeant?
Whatnicestories, mother, youcantellus! Whycan’tfatherwritelikethat, Iwonder?
Didheneverhearfromhisownmotherstoriesofgiantsandfairiesandprincesses?
Hasheforgottenthemall?
Oftenwhenhegetslateforhisbathyouhavetogoandcallhimanhundredtimes.
Youwaitandkeephisdisheswarmforhim, buthegoesonwritingandforgets.
Fatheralwaysplaysatmakingbooks.
IfeverIgotoplayinfather’sroom, youcomeandcallme, ‘Whatanaughtychild!’
IfImaketheslightestnoise, yousay, “Don’tyouseethatfather’sathiswork?”
What’sthefunofalwayswritingandwriting?
WhenItakeupfather’spenorpencilandwriteuponhisbookjustashedoes,—a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i,—whydoyougetcrosswithme, then, mother?
Youneversayawordwhenfatherwrites.
Whenmyfatherwastessuchheapsofpaper, mother, youdon’tseemtomindatall.
ButifItakeonlyonesheettomakeaboatwith, yousay, “Child, howtrouble-someyouare!”
Whatdoyouthinkoffather’sspoilingsheetsandsheetsofpaperwithblackmarksalloveronbothsides?
