"What shall it be about, then?"

"A wicked fairy."

"No; that's stupid. I'm tired of wicked fairies," said a scornful little
girl.

"A good giant, then," said a priggish imp, with a face as round as the
late plum-pudding.

"I am afraid I could not tell you a story about a _good_ giant; for
unfortunately all the good giants I ever heard of were very stupid; so
stupid that a story would not make itself about them; so stupid, indeed,
that they were always made game of by creatures not half so big or half so
good; and I don't like such stories. Shall I tell you about the wicked
giant that grew little children in his garden instead of radishes, and
then carried them about in his waistcoat pocket, and ate one as often as
he remembered he had got some?"

"Yes, yes; please do."

"He used to catch little children and plant them in his garden, where you
might see them in rows, with their heads only above ground, rolling their
eyes about, and growing awfully fast. He liked greedy boys best--boys that
ate plum-pudding till they felt as if their belts were too tight."

Here the fat-faced boy stuck both his hands inside his belt.

"Because he was so fond of radishes," I went on, "he lived just on the
borders of Giantland, where it touched on the country of common people.