She thinks
stories of naughty girls are a little personal. And so, with her chair
going and her shining eyes peering out from under her overhanging
forehead, I began
_THE STORY._
Simon was a selfish fellow. He was always willing anybody should divide
good things with him, but was never willing, himself, to divide with
anybody else. He was never willing to play with others, for fear he would
not be treated right. His two brothers and his sister had their playthings
together, but Simon would not play with them, for fear he should not get
his rights in all things, and so he took his little stock and set up for
himself. His brothers and sister, of course, by putting theirs together,
had many more than he. Then, too, by working together, they managed to
fix up many nice things. But poor Simon had nobody to help him, and
nobody to play with him. So he came to feel very bad. He thought
everybody was angry with him.
One sunny afternoon, when the other children were laughing and shouting
merrily, poor Simon tried in vain to be happy by himself. Something in
his throat kept choking him.
("I guess it was the cry that choked him," broke in the Small Chicken. "I
had a cry in my throat yesterday.
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