“Are there shops in the _Himmel?_”
“Shops? No.”
“But, then, where does _lieber Gott_ buy their dwesses?”
“Now run away like a good baby; I’m busy.”
“But you said yesterday, when I asked about _lieber Gott_, that you
would tell about Him on Sunday, and it is Sunday. Tell me a story about
Him.”
There was nothing for it but resignation, so I put down my pencil with
a sigh. “Call the others, then.”
She ran away, and presently they all three emerged from the bushes one
after the other, and tried all together to scramble on to my knee. The
April baby got the knee as she always seems to get everything, and the
other two had to sit on the grass.
I began about Adam and Eve, with an eye to future parsonic probings.
The April baby’s eyes opened wider and wider, and her face grew redder
and redder. I was surprised at the breathless interest she took in the
story—the other two were tearing up tufts of grass and hardly
listening. I had scarcely got to the angels with the flaming swords and
announced that that was all, when she burst out, “Now _I’ll_ tell about
it. Once upon a time there was Adam and Eva, and they had _plenty_ of
clothes, and there was no snake, and _lieber Gott_ wasn’t angry with
them, and they could eat as many apples as they liked, and was happy
for ever and ever—there now!”
She began to jump up and down defiantly on my knee.
“But that’s not the story,” I said rather helplessly.
“Yes, yes! It’s a much nicelier one! Now another.”
“But these stories are _true_,” I said severely; “and it’s no use my
telling them if you make them up your own way afterwards.”
“Another! another!” she shrieked, jumping up and down with redoubled
energy, all her silvery curls flying.