Белая птичка
The Grand Tour of the Gardens
ForthesweetestcraftthatslipshermooringsintheRoundPondiswhatiscalledastick-boat,becausesheisratherlikeastickuntilsheisinthewaterandyouareholdingthestring.Thenasyouwalkround,pullingher,youseelittlemenrunningaboutherdeck,andsailsrisemagicallyandcatchthebreeze,andyouputinondirtynightsatsnugharbourswhichareunknowntothelordlyyachts.Nightpassesinatwink,andagainyourrakishcraftnosesforthewind,whalesspout,youglideoverburiedcities,andhavebrusheswithpiratesandcastanchoroncoralisles.Youareasolitaryboywhileallthisistakingplace,fortwoboystogethercannotadventurefarupontheRoundPond,andthoughyoumaytalktoyourselfthroughoutthevoyage,givingordersandexecutingthemwithdispatch,youknownot,whenitistimetogohome,whereyouhavebeenorwhatswelledyoursails;yourtreasure-troveisalllockedawayinyourhold,sotospeak,whichwillbeopened,perhaps,byanotherlittleboymanyyearsafterward.
Butthoseyachtshavenothingintheirhold.Doesanyonereturntothishauntofhisyouthbecauseoftheyachtsthatusedtosailit?Oh,no.Itisthestick-boatthatisfreightedwithmemories.Theyachtsaretoys,theirownerafresh-watermariner,theycancrossandrecrossapondonlywhilethestick-boatgoestosea.Youyachtsmenwithyourwands,whothinkwearealltheretogazeonyou,yourshipsareonlyaccidentsofthisplace,andweretheyalltobeboardedandsunkbytheduckstherealbusinessoftheRoundPondwouldbecarriedonasusual.
