“That’s awfully strange!” exclaimed Coppertop.
“If a Book of Travels can’t move about a bit, who can?”
“Not a bit,” replied the Book without turning round. “I must improve my circulation somehow! And if a book of travels can’t move about a bit, who can, I should like to know?”
“Come along,” cried Tibbs.
While Coppertop was wondering what reply to make, the Book reached out its hand and pulled the blind, which went up with such force that it twirled round and round the roller at the top.
“What a day for the first of December!” exclaimed the Book. “I’m going to look for something better,” and so saying, it sat on the floor and rapidly turned over its own pages, saying as it did so:
“North, South, East, West,
Weather’s never at its best.
India, Egypt, or Japan,
Give us better, if you can.”
Coppertop blinked at the book of travels, and then at the window, unable to believe her eyes.
It was daybreak, and RAINING HARD.
“Oh dear, oh dear, how dreadfully botherating!” she exclaimed, almost in tears.
“I simply must get a fine December day somehow. It will never do for ‘them’ to arrive on a soaking wet day like this. It’s all the fault of that stupid old clerk of the weather, he does get things so mixed up! Why, this is more like a horrid July day!”
“That’s what it is,” muttered the Book of Travels.
