138 Lom Seven Years Old.

 

“Yes,” said his papa. “They have to wait
for the warm summer all through the cold
winter. And it’s while the poor robins are
waiting for new berries that they come and
beg us for food.”

Tom looked round. He now knew that
all along the border, though he could not see
them, there were plants lying quietly waiting
till the time came for them to peep out of the
ground,

“But,” said Tom, “they’re not in such a
hurry as I am—they couldn’t be, or they
wouldn't lie so still!”

“They mast wait,” answered his papa.

Tom sighed. He did not like to hear
that. He liked to think that, when he
could not get what he wanted himself, his
papa, or mamma, or somebody else would
be able to get it for him. That was why he
had complained to his papa about waiting.
He thought he would be able to prevent it.

“Dear me!” cried Tom. “It’s dreadful!
Poor buds! Poor plants! I’m glad I can
jump about, it makes the time seem shorter.”