LITMIR.BIZ

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brook's cold waters, very cold it would have felt, though it looked so browny bright and tempting. And many a bath in the brook Ted would have had, had Chevie been as much carried away by his spirits as his little master. For no sooner did the two set off running from the top of the sloping garden path, than Ted would call out, "A race, Chevie, a race! Who'll be at the bridge first?" And on he would run as fast as his sturdy wee legs could carry him, Cheviott bounding beside him with a great show of also doing his best. But—and wasn't this clever of Chevie?—just a little way on this side of the bridge he would—not stop short, for that might have disappointed Ted and made him feel as if they weren't having a real race, but go gradually more slowly, as if he felt he had no chance of gaining, so that little Ted always reached the bridge first, and stood shouting with glee and triumph. The first time or two that Ted's mother saw this little performance she had been frightened, for if the dog had gone on at full speed, or even only at luggage-train speed, beside the boy, he could not have avoided tumbling him into the brook. But for anything of this kind Cheviott was far too much of a gentleman, and after watching them once or twice, Ted's mother felt perfectly satisfied that the little man could not be better taken care of than by his four-footed friend.

      There was another friend, too, who could very well be trusted to take care of Ted, for though he had, of course, a very kind, good nurse in the house, nurses are not able to be the whole day long in the garden, nor are they always very fond of being much there. So, even though Ted was still quite a little boy, it was very nice for him to have two such good out-door friends as Cheviott and David the gardener, the other one I am going to tell you of.

      It was a beautiful spring day. Ted woke up early, and thought to himself how nice and bright and sunny it was going to be in the garden. He was rather in a hurry to be dressed, for there were several things he was in a hurry to do, and the days, in summer time especially, never seemed long enough for all he had before him. Just now these summer days seemed really brimming over with nice things, for his big cousin Percy—at least he was what Ted counted a "big" cousin, and he was a good many years older than Ted—was with him for the holidays, and though Percy had some lessons to do, still they had a good deal of time together.

      "Ted wonders if Percy is 'decked' yet," said Ted to his nurse. "Decked" was the word he always used for "dressed," and he was often made fun of for using it. His mind was very full of Percy this morning, for he had only arrived the evening before, and besides the pleasure of having him with him, which was always a pleasure, there was the nice newness of it,—the things he had to show Percy, the tricks Chevie had learnt, big dog though he was, the letters and little words Ted had himself mastered since Percy was last there.

      "I don't know that Master Percy will be ready quite so early this morning," said nurse. "He may be a little tired with travelling yesterday."

      "Ted doesn't zink Percy will be tired," said Ted. "Percy wants to see the garden. Percy is so big, isn't he, nurse? Percy can throw sticks up in the sky so high. Percy throwed one up in the sky up to heaven, so high that it never comed down again."

      "Indeed," said nurse; "are you quite sure of that, Master Ted? Perhaps it did come down again, but you didn't see it."

      Nurse was a sensible person, you see. She did not all at once begin saying to Ted that he was talking nonsense, or worse still that he was telling stories. For very little children often "romance" in a sweet innocent way which has nothing whatever to do with story-telling—I mean untruth-telling, for it is better not to call untruths "stories," is it not? The world and the people in it, and the things they see and hear, are all new and strange to the little creatures so lately started on their puzzling journey. What wonder that real and fancy are mixed up together sometimes—that it is difficult to understand that the pretty blue-bells do not sometimes tinkle in the moonlight, or that there are no longer bears in the woods or fairies hidden among the grass? Perhaps it would be better for us if we were more ready to believe even such passed-by fancies, than to be so quick as we sometimes are to accuse others of wishing to deceive.

      Ted looked at nurse thoughtfully.

      "P'raps it did," he said. "P'raps it might have comed down again after Ted was a'leep."

      "I daresay it caught in a tree or something of that kind," said nurse, as she finished brushing Ted's soft curls and lifted him off the chair on which he had been standing, just as Percy put his head in at the door to ask if Ted might have a run in the garden with him before breakfast.

      "They're not down yet," said Percy, nodding his bright curly head in the direction of Ted's father's and mother's room; "they're not ready. Nurse, do let Ted come out with me for a bit before breakfast," and Ted trotted off, his hand in Percy's, in utmost content.

      Was there ever so clever and kind and wonderful a big boy as Percy before? Was there ever one who knew so much about everything—cricket and croquet and football; skating and fishing and climbing trees—things on earth and things in water—what was there he didn't know? These were the thoughts that were busy in Ted's little brain as he followed kind Percy about the garden, that bright summer morning, chattering incessantly, and yet ready enough to be silent when Percy took it into his head to relate to his tiny adorer some of his school experiences.

      "Ted will go to school some day, Percy," he said half questioningly.

      "Of course you will. I hope you'll come to my school if I've not left by then. I could look after you, you know, and see that they didn't bully you."

      "What's 'bully'?" asked Ted.

      "Oh, teasing, you know. Setting you down because you're a little chap, and all that. Knocking you about if you don't look sharp. All those kinds of things that big fellows do to small ones."

      Ted opened his eyes. It was not very clear to him what Percy meant—it was a new idea, and would have distressed him greatly had he quite taken it in that big boys could be anything but good to little ones.

      "Thoo doesn't knock Ted about, and thoo is big, Percy," he said, remonstratingly.

      "No, of course I don't, but that's different. You're like my brother, you know."

      "And bruvvers couldn't knock theirselves about," said Ted with an air of satisfaction.

      "N-no, I suppose not," said Percy. Boy as he was, he felt somehow that he could not bear to destroy little Ted's beautiful faith. "But never mind about that just now," he added; "let's run down the bank and see how the cabbages and cauliflowers are getting on. They were just put in when I was here last;" and for some time both boys were intensely interested in examining the state of the vegetable beds.

      "Ted likes f'owers best," said the child, after a few moments' silence. "When Ted——"

      "Why don't you say 'I' and 'I like,' Teddy?" said Percy. "You're getting such a big boy—four years old."

      "Ted means I," persisted the small man. "I sall have all f'owers in Ted's garden, when me is big."

      Percy was obliged to leave off what he was about—hunting for the slugs and caterpillars among the cabbages—in order that he might stand still and laugh.

      "I'm afraid you wouldn't get the prize for grammar at our school, Ted," he said. But Ted only laughed too.

      "I haven't learnt grammar," he said slowly and distinctly. "But please, Percy, Ted doesn't like cabbages. Come and see the f'owers. There was lots of c'ocodiles at that side. Ted likes zem best of all, but zem's done now."

      "Crocodiles," said Percy. "What can crocodiles be?"

      "Little f'owers with pointy leaves," said Ted. "P'raps it isn't c'ocodiles but somesing like coc—coco——"

      "Crocuses perhaps," said Percy, as they made their way up to the house. "Yes, they're very pretty, but they're soon done."

      "When I'm big I'll have a garden where they'll never be done," said Ted. "I'll have c'ocodiles and towslips for muzzer and—and——"

      "Come in to breakfast, my man," called out his father from the dining-room. "What have you been about this morning?"

      "We'se

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