"It's not the busy bee," he added,
laughing;--"I should know him. It must be the lazy one, I suppose."
"Don't you know your letters?" asked his mother.
"No, mamma. Which are they? Are the rest yours and papa's?"
"Oh, you silly dear!" she said.
"Of course I am!" he returned;--"very silly! How could any of them be
mine before I know the names of them! When I know them all, then they'll
all be mine, I suppose--and everybody else's who knows them.--So that's
Mr B--is it?"
"Yes. And that's C," said his mother.
"I'm glad to see you, Mr C," said Willie, merrily, nodding to the
letter. "We shall know each other when we meet again.--I suppose this is
D, mamma. How d'e do, Mr D? And what's this one with its mouth open, and
half its tongue cut off?"
His mother told him it was E.
"Then this one, with no foot to stand on, is Fe, I suppose."
His mother laughed; but whoever gave it the name it has, would have done
better to call it Fe, as Willie did. It would be much better also, in
teaching children, at least, to call H, He, and W, We, and Y, Ye, and Z,
Ze, as Willie called them. But it was easy enough for him to learn their
names after he knew so much of what they could _do_.
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