THOSE EXCELLENT PONIES

Justin was five when we read The Hobbit.  During most of one rainy weekend, I sat in my chair in the corner and read while he tore around the living room jumping off the furniture, working off the energy that he couldn't release outside.

I kept saying, "Look, Justin, we don't have to read this." I would fold up the book with the idea of letting him play freely -- but the next thing I knew he was back with this big, heavy book in his five-year-old hands:  "Wread it, Mummy."  So I read, until the jumping around reached a level that couldn't be compatible with listening -- could it?

Finally I said, "Justin, what did I just read?"  He responded with a capable precis of the last paragraph, concluding on a rising inflection with the phrase -- an important one in context -- "those excellent PONIES!"

All right.  He really can run around like a Tasmanian devil and listen at the same time.  I kept reading, ignoring the wild rumpus at my feet, until we finished the book.