You say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I don't understand.
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You never say a word when father writes.
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What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father write like that, I wonder?
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But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say, "Child, how troublesome you are!"
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Has he forgotten them all?
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What's the fun of always writing and writing?
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Father always plays at making books.
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If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me, "what a naughty child!"
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He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant?
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If I make the slightest noise, you say, "Don't you see that father's at his work?"
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You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets.
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Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an hundred times.
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When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does,-- a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i,-- why do you get cross with me, then, mother?
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When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't seem to mind at all.
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What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?
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Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses?
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