Белая птичка
The Fight For Timothy
ButnomoreaboutTimothy.Graduallythisvexedme.IfeltwhataforlornlittlechapTimothywas,withnoonetosayawordforhim,andIbecamehischampionandhintedsomethingaboutteething,butwithdrewitwhenitseemedtoosurprising,andtriedtogetontosaferground,suchasbibsandgeneralintelligence,butthepainterfellowwassowillingtoletmehavemysay,andknewsomuchmoreaboutbabiesthanisfittingformentoknow,thatIpaledbeforehimandwonderedwhythedeucehewaslisteningtomesoattentively.
Youmayrememberastoryhehadtoldmeaboutsomeanonymousfriend.“Hislatest,”saidhenow,“istosendDavidarocking-horse!”
ImustsayIcouldseenoreasonforhismirth.“Pictureit,”saidhe,“arocking-horseforachildnotthreemonthsold!”
Iwasabouttosayfiercely:“Thestirrupsareadjustable,”butthoughtitbesttolaughwithhim.ButIwaspainedtohearthatMaryhadlaughed,thoughheavenknowsIhaveoftenlaughedather.
“Butwomenareodd,”hesaidunexpectedly,andexplained.ItappearsthatinthemiddleofhermerrimentMaryhadbecomegraveandsaidtohimquitehaughtily,“Iseenothingtolaughat.”Thenshehadkissedthehorsesolemnlyonthenoseandsaid,“Iwishhewasheretoseemedoit.”TherearemomentswhenonecannothelpfeelingadrawingtoMary.
Butmomentsonly,forthenextthinghesaidputherinaparticularlyodiouslight.HeinformedmethatshehadsworntohuntMr.Anondown.
“Shewon’tsucceed,”Isaid,sneeringbutnervous.
“Thenitwillbeherfirstfailure,”saidhe.
