Unc looked out of the window and stroked his
long beard. Then he turned to the Munchkin boy and
shook his head.
"Isn't," said he.
"Isn't any butter? That's too bad, Unc. Where's
the jam then?" inquired Ojo, standing on a stool
so he could look through all the shelves of the
cupboard. But Unc Nunkie shook his head again.
"Gone," he said.
"No jam, either? And no cake--no jelly--no
apples--nothing but bread?"
"All," said Unc, again stroking his beard as he
gazed from the window.
The little boy brought the stool and sat beside
his uncle, munching the dry bread slowly and
seeming in deep thought.
"Nothing grows in our yard but the bread
tree," he mused, "and there are only two more
loaves on that tree; and they're not ripe yet. Tell
me, Unc; why are we so poor?"
The old Munchkin turned and looked at Ojo. He
had kindly eyes, but he hadn't smiled or laughed
in so long that the boy had forgotten that Unc
Nunkie could look any other way than solemn. And
Unc never spoke any more words than he was obliged
to, so his little nephew, who lived alone with
him, had learned to understand a great deal from
one word.
"Why are we so poor, Unc?" repeated the boy.
"Not," said the old Munchkin.
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