“Father, will you tell me a story?” said Rollo one day.

Rollo’s father was sitting on the platform, leading out to the garden-yard.* It was a pleasant summer evening, just before sunset.

“Shall it be a true story, or a fictitious one?” said his father.“What is fictitious?” asked Rollo.

“A story that is not true.”

“But it would be wrong for you to tell me any thing that was not true, would it not?” said Rollo.

“Do you think it would be certainly wrong?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suppose you were coming along the yard, and were riding on my cane, and should come up to me and say, ‘Papa, this is my horse. See what a noble horse I have got.’ Would that be wrong?”

“No, sir.”

“Would it be true?”

“No, sir,—It would not be a real horse.”

“Now do you know why it would be right in this case for you to say it was a horse, when it was not?”

Rollo could not tell.“I will tell you,” said his father. “Because you would not be trying to deceive me. I could see your horse, as you call him, and could see that it was nothing but a cane. You would not be trying to deceive me, to make me think it was a real horse when it was not.”

“No, sir,” said Rollo.

“If you should say any thing which is not strictly true, and want to make me think it is true, that would be very wrong. That would be telling a lie. So it would be very wrong for me to tell you any thing which is not true, and try to make you think it is true. But it is not wrong for me to make up a little story to amuse you, if I do not try to deceive you by it.”

“Would that be a fictitious story?”

“Yes.”

“Well, father, I should like to have you tell me a fictitious story.”“Well, I will tell you one. The name of it is, The Fly’s Morning Walk.” So Rollo’s father took his little boy up in his lap, and told him the following fictitious story.