Now, you must know that I am quite as fond of the oaks and
the grass and the blue sky as Sunbeam, or Fairy, or the brown-faced
Little Chick. And so it happens, when the day is hot, and the lazy
breezes will not keep the house cool, that I just move my chair and table
out by the lilac-bush that grows under the twin oaks, and then I think I
can write better. And there I sit and watch the trains coming and going
to and from the great, bustling city, only a dozen miles away, or listen
to the singing of the robins while I write.
I was sitting thus one dull, hot afternoon, trying to write; but it was a
lazy day; the robins had forgotten to sing, the little sparrows that live
up in the oaks had stopped twittering, and the very honey bees were
humming drowsily, when Chicken Little came up with a wreath of white
clover around her head, and begged for a story. The older children wanted
one, also, and so I had to tell one. To tell the truth, I was a little
lazy myself, and so I willingly sat down in the grass among the children
and began.
"Shall I tell about a lazy girl about as big as Chicken Little?" I asked.
"No, sir," she said; "tell about a lazy boy that was as big as Sunbeam."
Sunbeam laughed at this, and nodded her head for me to go on.
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