Белая птичка
The Last of Timothy
Iwished(sohadthephantasyofTimothytakenpossessionofme)thatbeforehewenthecouldhaveplayedonceintheKensingtonGardens,andhaveriddenonthefallentrees,callinggloriouslytometolook;thathecouldhavesailedonepaper-galleonontheRoundPond;fainwouldIhavehadhimchaseonehoopalittlewaydownthelaughingavenuesofchildhood,wherememorytellsuswerunbutonce,onalongsummer-day,emergingattheotherendasmenandwomenwithallthefuntopayfor;andIthink(thusfancywantonswithmeinthesedesolatechambers)heknewmylongings,andsaidwithaboy-likeflushthatthereasonheneverdidthesethingswasnotthathewasafraid,forhewouldhavelovedtodothemall,butbecausehewasnotquitelikeotherboys;and,sosaying,heletgomyfingerandfadedfrombeforemyeyesintoanotherandgoldenether;butIshalleverholdthathadhebeenquitelikeotherboystherewouldhavebeennonebraverthanmyTimothy.
IfearIamnottrulybravemyself,forthoughwhenunderfire,sofarasIcanrecollect,Ibehavedasothers,morallyIseemtobedeficient.SoIdiscoverednextdaywhenIattemptedtobuyDavid’soutfit,andfoundmyselfasshyofenteringtheshopasanyMaryatthepawnbroker’s.Theshopforlittlegarmentsseemsveryalarmingwhenyoureachthedoor;amanabruptlybecomeaparent,andthuslosttoafinersenseoftheproprieties,maybeabletostalkinunprotected,butapparentlyIcouldnot.Indeed,Ihaveallowedarepugnancetoenteringshopsofanykind,savemytailor’s,togrowonme,andtomytailor’sIfearIgotoofrequently.
