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?