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Page 6
"I'll try," said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. "Hold
my knife, Johnnie. Father's been cross, and everything has been
miserable, ever since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, and
could make a fortune.--Will that do, Granny?"
The old lady put down her knitting and looked. "My dear, that's too
short. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by."
"I thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;" and he
propped himself against the old lady's chair.
"My dear! don't lean so; you'll tipple me over!" she shrieked.
"I beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will _that_ do?"
"It's that much too long."
"Tear that bit off. Now it's all right."
"But, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes my
knitting, you awkward lad!"
"Johnnie, pick it up!--Oh! Grandmother, I _am_ so hungry." The boy's
eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an
instant.
"What can I do for you, my poor bairns?" said she. "There, never mind
the scraps, Tommy."
"Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn't keep
thinking of that bread in the cupboard.--Come, Johnnie, and sit against
me. Now then!"
"I doubt if there's one of my old-world cracks I haven't told you,"
said the old lady, "unless it's a queer ghost story was told me years
ago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows."
"Oh! not ghosts!" Tommy broke in; "we've had so many. I know it was a
rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if
it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it."
"It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone," said the old lady with
dignity. "It's a good half-mile from the churchyard. And as to white
petticoats, there wasn't a female in the house; he wouldn't have one;
and his victuals came in by the pantry window. But never mind! Though
it's as true as a sermon."
Johnnie lifted his head from his brother's knee.
"Let Granny tell what she likes, Tommy. It's a new ghost, and I should
like to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window."
"I don't like a story about victuals," sulked Tommy. "It makes me think
of the bread. O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. You never will
tell us about the Fairies, and I know you know."
"Hush! hush!" said the old lady. "There's Miss Surbiton's Love-letter,
and her Dreadful End."
"I know Miss Surbiton, Granny. I think she was a goose. Why don't you
tell us about the Fairies?"
"Hush! hush! my dear. There's the Clerk and the Corpse-candles."
"I know the Corpse-candles, Granny. Besides, they make Johnnie dream,
and he wakes me to keep him company. _Why_ won't you tell us about
the Fairies?"
"My dear, they don't like it," said the old lady.
"O Granny dear, why don't they? Do tell! I shouldn't think of the bread
a bit, if you told us about the Fairies. I know nothing about them."
"He lived in this house long enough," said the old lady. "But it's not
lucky to name him."
"O Granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?"
"Well, that's true enough," she sighed. "Trout's luck is gone; it went
with the Brownie, I believe."
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