Діти залізниці
The engine-burglar.
"
"You’reabrick,"criedBobbie;"it’sasplendidpresent."Shesaidnomorealoud,buttoherselfshesaid:—
"ThatwasawfullyjollydecentofPeterbecauseIknowhedidn’tmeanto.Well,thebrokenhalfshallbemyhalfoftheengine,andI’llgetitmendedandgiveitbacktoPeterforhisbirthday."—"Yes,Motherdear,Ishouldliketocutthecake,"sheadded,andteabegan.
Itwasadelightfulbirthday.AfterteaMotherplayedgameswiththem—anygametheyliked—andofcoursetheirfirstchoicewasblindman’s-buff,inthecourseofwhichBobbie’sforget-me-notwreathtwisteditselfcrookedlyoveroneofherearsandstayedthere.Then,whenitwasnearbed-timeandtimetocalmdown,Motherhadalovelynewstorytoreadtothem.
"Youwon’tsituplateworking,willyou,Mother?"Bobbieaskedastheysaidgoodnight.
AndMothersaidno,shewouldn’t—shewouldonlyjustwritetoFatherandthengotobed.
ButwhenBobbiecreptdownlatertobringupherpresents—forshefeltshereallycouldnotbeseparatedfromthemallnight—Motherwasnotwriting,butleaningherheadonherarmsandherarmsonthetable.IthinkitwasrathergoodofBobbietoslipquietlyaway,sayingoverandover,"Shedoesn’twantmetoknowshe’sunhappy,andIwon’tknow;Iwon’tknow."Butitmadeasadendtothebirthday.
