P Y S E N A N D L I T T L E O
It was a Friday morning in November at the Larssons, two flights up in the old house on West St. Per’s street in Norrköping, Sweden.
“Usch, such slushy weather,” said Mamma, as she pulled up the shades in the Chicken Coop.
The Chicken Coop was what the family called the room of the two youngest ones. Pysen was five and Little O, three years old.
“Can’t we go out?” they cried together.
“No, it is better for you to stay inside today,” said Mamma. “I let Sotarn out a little while ago, and after half a minute he came in again, his fur completely soaked. What would you do outside in weather like this?”
“Play,” said Pysen.
“Play,” echoed Little O.
“You can play inside,” called Knutte from the doorway, “but don’t touch my things.”
“Goodmorning to you, chickens,” said Papa, peeking in.
“Morning,” said Pysen. “What are we going to do all day, then?”
“Well, paint, for instance,” said Papa. “Ask Dessi for paper and paint.”
Dessi was seventeen. The moment she had finished her school work she would start painting.
But Dessi already was on her way down the stairs. Lasse, Knutte, Mirre and Rosalinda hurried after. They were all going to school. Then Papa left. He was going to his factory.
Pysen and Little O got out of bed. They dressed, ate their cereal and rye crisp with butter, and drank their milk.
And then, they didn’t know what to do.
Sotarn, the Larssons’ black cat, was sitting in the window licking his wet fur. Occasionally he would chase the rain drops trickling down on the outside of the window. He looked very annoyed when he couldn’t catch them. The rain was coming down so hard outside, you could scarcely see across the yard.
The mailman came, but there were only dull letters, not even a magazine with pictures. Usch, such a day!
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