you say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes i don't understand.

he was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant?

what nice stories, mother, you can tell us! why can't father write like that, i wonder?

did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses?

has he forgotten them all?

often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an hundred times.

you wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets.

father always plays at making books.

if ever i go to play in father's room, you come and call me, "what a naughty child!"

if i make the slightest noise, you say, "don't you see that father's at his work?"

what's the fun of always writing and writing?

when i take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does,--a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i,--why do you get cross with me, then, mother?

you never say a word when father writes.

when my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't seem to mind at all.

but if i take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say, "child, how troublesome you are!"

what do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?