Tony remembered the hot rain and the earthquakes.
“It is a nice story,” she said, “of course the grass is like a forest to the ants, and the big forest is the hedge. Your Sunday suit is silk velvet, your aunt told mother so. Yes, it is a nice story, and an ant did drop into my bread and milk yesterday, though I don’t know how you knew.”
“You mayn’t believe it;” said Tony, “but I shall give them corn because it says so in Mr. Birkbeck’s prophecy, only I won’t ever give them any milk in case they grow big. They are too bad-tempered. Just think if the King had been our size!”
“Oh, come along home, do,” said the Blue Mountain, a little crossly. “I am tired. It is dinner time, it’s no use pretending about Kings and things. You know well enough you are only Tony-next-door.”
And whatever he may have been before, it is quite certain that since then he has been “Tony-next-door,” and nothing else whatever.
