Біла пташка

An Interloper

           

           Ithinkhehadnighfallenasleepagainwhenhestirredandsaid,“Isitgoingonnow?”

           “What?”

           “Theadventure.”

           “Yes,David.”

           Perhapsthisdisturbedhim,forby-and-byIhadtoinquire,“Youarenotfrightened,areyou?”

           “AmInot?”heansweredpolitely,andIknewhishandwasgropinginthedarkness,soIputoutmineandheheldontightlytoonefinger.

           “Iamnotfrightenednow,”hewhispered.

           “Andthereisnothingelseyouwant?”

           “Istherenot?”heagainaskedpolitely.“Areyousurethere’snot?”headded.

           “Whatcanitbe,David?”

           “Idon’ttakeupverymuchroom,”thefar-awayvoicesaid.

           “Why,David,”saidI,sittingup,“doyouwanttocomeintomybed?”

           “MothersaidIwasn’ttowantitunlessyouwanteditfirst,”hesqueaked.

           “ItiswhatIhavebeenwantingallthetime,”saidI,andthenwithoutmoreadothelittlewhitefigureroseandflungitselfatme.Fortherestofthenighthelayonmeandacrossme,andsometimeshisfeetwereatthebottomofthebedandsometimesonthepillow,buthealwaysretainedpossessionofmyfinger,andoccasionallyhewokemetosaythathewassleepingwithme.Ihadnotagoodnight.Ilaythinking.

           Ofthislittleboy,who,inthemidstofhisplaywhileIundressedhim,hadsuddenlyburiedhisheadonmyknees.

           Ofthewomanwhohadbeenforhimwhocouldbesufficientlydaring.

           OfDavid’sdrippinglittleforminthebath,andhowwhenIessayedtocatchhimhehadslippedfrommyarmslikeatrout

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Roboto Lora
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