The Little Lady who lives in the House of Many Windows (sometimes called
a flat or an apartment by people who, because they are grown up, do not
know any better) had been spending the summer on a nice farm in the Land
of Pleasant Fields. There had been many things to see--little pigs among
other things, and some very small chickens. Also a cow with two
calves--one a dark red one, and one spotted, even to its tail, that
looked like a barber pole.
Amid all this, and a great deal more, not forgetting the Hillside of
Sweet Fruits, the Little Lady had almost forgotten a number of people
who lived in the Big Deep Woods, and whose acquaintance she had made
through the Story Teller during the winter before, while sailing at
evening in the Rockaby Chair for the Shore of White Pillows.
But when the cold winds began to blow and they were all back to the
City of Rumbling Streets in the House of Many Windows again and she
heard the wind men moaning in the speaking tube, she forgot even the
striped tailed calf, and remembered all at once the dark forest and the
queer people who dwelt there. And when the Story Teller that night had
drawn his chair up before the fire and sat rocking she climbed upon his
knee and rocked, too, while he thought, and smoked, and looked into the
blaze.
The Little Lady waited a good while. Then she took hold of the lapel of
his coat and tugged it gently and looked up into the Story Teller's
face.
"Tell me a story," she commanded softly. "One about Mr. Crow and Mr.
'Possum, and Mr. Jack Rabbit and all the others. What did they do this
summer? You know; tell it."
The Story Teller grumbled something about not having met any of these
fellows lately, and rocked a little harder and thought very fast.
"I s'pose you've heard about Mr. Crow's April fool," he said, as he
knocked the ashes from his pipe into the grate.
"No, I haven't--not that story--I never heard that story," she said
eagerly.
So, then, the Story Teller rocked some more, and half shut his eyes and
began.