"Well, Totchen," said Tot's boy-uncle Will, looking up from his book as
something pierced his knee, as only Tot's small elbow could pierce.
"Well, Totchen; what is it? Stories? Then _jump_!"

O, what happy state to sit enthroned upon a big boy-uncle's knee, and
listen, listen, listen, with eyes like the dog's in the fairy story--"as
big as the great round tower at Copenhagen"--more or less!

"What shall I tell you? Aladdin? Puss in Boots? Cin--"

"Soogar Wiver" interrupted Tot, promptly.

"_Soogar Wiver?_ Why, what a little pitcher for ears! What do you know
about Soogar Wiver?"

"Oo said," said Tot, with decision, "that oo went fisin' in Soogar
Wiver."

"Why, so I did," said the boy, reflectively.

"Is it vewy sweet?" asked Tot.

"Sweet?" echoed the boy, taking his wicked cue and with a prolonged
drawing in of the lips. "I should say so! Why, its bed is solid sugar,
with as many grades of sugar grains for sand as one finds in a grocer
shop."

"Do wivers do to bed dus 'ike 'ittle dirls?" demanded Tot, whose young
existence was embittered by that seemingly needless ceremony.