Белая птичка
The Grand Tour of the Gardens
Oftenyoustopwhenyouhaverunabouthalf-waydownit,andthenyouarelost,butthereisanotherlittlewoodenhousenearhere,calledtheLostHouse,andsoyoutellthemanthatyouarelostandthenhefindsyou.ItisgloriousfunracingdowntheHump,butyoucan’tdoitonwindydaysbecausethenyouarenotthere,butthefallenleavesdoitinsteadofyou.Thereisalmostnothingthathassuchakeensenseoffunasafallenleaf.
FromtheHumpwecanseethegatethatiscalledafterMissMabelGrey,theFigIpromisedtotellyouabout.Therewerealwaystwonurseswithher,orelseonemotherandonenurse,andforalongtimeshewasapattern-childwhoalwayscoughedoffthetableandsaid,“Howdoyoudo?”totheotherFigs,andtheonlygamesheplayedatwasflingingaballgracefullyandlettingthenursebringitbacktoher.Thenonedayshetiredofitallandwentmad-dog,and,first,toshowthatshereallywasmad-dog,sheunloosenedbothherboot-lacesandputouthertongueeast,west,north,andsouth.Shethenflunghersashintoapuddleanddancedonittilldirtywaterwassquirtedoverherfrock,afterwhichsheclimbedthefenceandhadaseriesofincredibleadventures,oneoftheleastofwhichwasthatshekickedoffbothherboots.Atlastshecametothegatethatisnowcalledafterher,outofwhichsheranintostreetsDavidandIhaveneverbeeninthoughwehaveheardthemroaring,andstillsheranonandwouldneveragainhavebeenheardofhadnothermotherjumpedintoabusandthusovertakenher.
