isn't it? How I would love to do it! Maybe I couldn't do—all that. But I've read stories in the magazines, lots of them. Seems as if I could write some like those, anyway. I love to tell stories. I'm always repeating those you tell, and I always laugh and cry, too, just as I do when you tell them."
Jamie turned quickly.
"Do they make you laugh and cry, Pollyanna—really?" There was a curious eagerness in his voice.
"Of course they do, and you know it, Jamie. And they used to long ago, too, in the Public Garden. Nobody can tell stories like you, Jamie. You ought to be the one writing stories; not I. And, say, Jamie, why don't you? You could do it lovely, I know!"
There was no answer. Jamie, apparently, did not hear; perhaps because he called, at that instant, to a chipmunk that was scurrying through the bushes near by.
It was not always with Jamie, nor yet with Mrs. Carew and Sadie Dean that Pollyanna had delightful walks and talks, however; very often it was with Jimmy, or John Pendleton.
Pollyanna was sure now that she had never before known John Pendleton. The old taciturn moroseness seemed entirely gone since they came to camp. He rowed and swam and fished and tramped with fully as much enthusiasm as did Jimmy himself, and with almost as much vigor. Around the camp fire at night he quite rivaled Jamie with his story-telling of adventures, both laughable and thrilling, that had befallen him in his foreign travels.
