98 Tom Seven Years Old.

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So can I,” said Archie, slipping off the
stool. “I can say ‘John Gilpin’ right
through without a mistake. Can you ?”
Tom was silent. He could not, and he
did not want to say that he could not.
“Shall I begin ?” asked Archie.
“Oh no,” said Tom; “please don’t; I

 

don’t want to hear it. Then, suddenly remem-
bering his promise, he added, “ Unless it
would make you happy, you know.”

“Not at all,” said Archie. “I came here
to play, not to repeat poetry. What shall
we play at?”

“Whatever you like best,” said Tom, with
a sigh, He was beginning to tire of trying
to make somebody happy.

“Flave you got bricks?” said Archie.
“We might build a house.”

Tom ran up to get them out of his press,
He did not dislike building houses, if he could »
take the nicest bricks. There were only four
long ones to make the roof—all the rest were
small. ‘Tom dragged them near him. They
each built up the walls, leaving two holes, one