It seemed to us that they should still be in the sapling stage corresponding to our boyhood . `` Your apples are lovely to eat , '' the Story Girl said to me , `` but Felix 's are only good for pies . Those two big trees behind them are the twins ' trees -- my mother and Uncle Felix , you know . The apples are so dead sweet that nobody but us children and the French boys can eat them . And that tall , slender tree over there , with the branches all growing straight up , is a seedling that came up of itself , and NOBODY can eat its apples , they are so sour and bitter . Even the pigs wo n't eat them . Aunt Janet tried to make pies of them once , because she said she hated to see them going to waste . But she never tried again . She said it was better to waste apples alone than apples and sugar too . And then she tried giving them away to the French hired men , but they would n't even carry them home . '' The Story Girl 's words fell on the morning air like pearls and diamonds . Even her prepositions and conjunctions had untold charm , hinting at mystery and laughter and magic bound up in everything she mentioned . Apple pies and sour seedlings and pigs became straightway invested with a glamour of romance . `` I like to hear you talk , '' said Felix in his grave , stodgy way . `` Everybody does , '' said the Story Girl coolly . `` I 'm glad you like the way I talk . But I want you to like ME , too -- AS WELL as you like Felicity and Cecily . Not BETTER . I wanted that once but I 've got over it . I found out in Sunday School , the day the minister taught our class , that it was selfish .
But I want you XXXXX like me AS WELL . ''
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