Волны

           Hisroughandhairyvoiceislikeanunshavenchin.Nowhelurchesbacktohisseatlikeadrunkensailor.Itisanactionthatalltheothermasterswilltrytoimitate;but,beingflimsy,beingfloppy,wearinggreytrousers,theywillonlysucceedinmakingthemselvesridiculous.Idonotdespisethem.Theiranticsseempitiableinmyeyes.Inotethefactforfuturereferencewithmanyothersinmynotebook.WhenIamgrownupIshallcarryanotebook--afatbookwithmanypages,methodicallylettered.Ishallentermyphrases.UnderBshallcome"Butterflypowder".If,inmynovel,Idescribethesunonthewindow-sill,IshalllookunderBandfindbutterflypowder.Thatwillbeuseful.Thetree"shadesthewindowwithgreenfingers".Thatwillbeuseful.Butalas!Iamsosoondistracted--byahairliketwistedcandy,byCelia’sPrayerBook,ivorycovered.Louis’cancontemplatenature,unwinking,bythehour.SoonIfail,unlesstalkedto."Thelakeofmymind,unbrokenbyoars,heavesplacidlyandsoonsinksintoanoilysomnolence."Thatwillbeuseful.’

           ’Nowwemoveoutofthiscooltemple,intotheyellowplaying-fields,’saidLouis.’And,asitisahalf-holiday(theDuke’sbirthday)wewillsettleamongthelonggrasses,whiletheyplaycricket.CouldIbe"they"Iwouldchooseit;Iwouldbuckleonmypadsandstrideacrosstheplaying-fieldattheheadofthebatsmen.Looknow,howeverybodyfollowsPercival.Heisheavy.Hewalksclumsilydownthefield,throughthelonggrass,towherethegreatelmtreesstand.Hismagnificenceisthatofsomemediaevalcommander.