Мхи старой усадьбы

           Now,Iamafidgetylittleman,andalwayslovetohavesomethinginmyfingers;sothat,beingdebarredfrommywife’scurls,Ilookedaboutmeforanyotherplaything.Onthefrontseatofthecoachtherewasoneofthosesmallbasketsinwhichtravellingladieswhoaretoodelicatetoappearatapublictablegenerallycarryasupplyofgingerbread,biscuitsandcheese,coldham,andotherlightrefreshments,merelytosustainnaturetothejourney’send.Suchairydietwillsometimeskeeptheminprettygoodfleshforaweektogether.Layingholdofthissamelittlebasket,Ithrustmyhandunderthenewspaperwithwhichitwascarefullycovered.

           "What’sthis,mydear?"criedI;fortheblackneckofabottlehadpoppedoutofthebasket.

           "AbottleofKalydor,Mr.Bullfrog,"saidmywife,coollytakingthebasketfrommyhandsandreplacingitonthefrontseat.

           Therewasnopossibilityofdoubtingmywife’sword;butIneverknewgenuineKalydor,suchasIuseformyowncomplexion,tosmellsomuchlikecherrybrandy.Iwasabouttoexpressmyfearsthatthelotionwouldinjureherskin,whenanaccidentoccurredwhichthreatenedmorethanaskin-deepinjury.OurJehuhadcarelesslydrivenoveraheapofgravelandfairlycapsizedthecoach,withthewheelsintheairandourheelswhereourheadsshouldhavebeen.WhatbecameofmywitsIcannotimagine;theyhavealwayshadaperversetrickofdesertingmejustwhentheyweremostneeded;butsoitchanced,thatintheconfusionofouroverthrowIquiteforgotthattherewasaMrs.Bullfrogintheworld.